


Long Long Trail

by Francophilly



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-14 22:50:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 52,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4583139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Francophilly/pseuds/Francophilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hon Phryne Fisher has gone to England, leaving DI Jack Robinson in a quandary.  Can she sort out her family's financial woes at a time of world-wide economic depression?  Does he follow his heart or his head?  Making life choices can have heartbreaking consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been a time in the writing and has likenesses both structurally and stylistically to others that have also been written post Season 3 - even the title! Similarities are neither intentional nor deliberate but probably reflect being based on the same context.

_Raffles, Beach Road_

_Singapore_

_September 8_

_Dearest Jack_

_I shall continue to send you telegrams at each rest-stop that has the available service so that you can pass on the news of our status to those who need to hear it.  Did you receive them – from Darwin and here? This letter I know will be far slower but it allows me some peace and quiet from father who rails at me constantly whether in the jump seat or on solid ground threatening to abandon our journey at every opportunity. Fortunately he is entirely dependent upon me for his every resource so I must just listen to his aggravation and attempt to ignore it._

_We arrived here from Darwin and are to spend several days while the plane gets a bit of an overhaul and re-fuel and father and I have some rest, although I deserve it and he does not. The hotel is very suited to the tropical conditions with a palm court in a grand open lobby and wide verandas.  Father has succumbed to the lethal combination of elegance, style and cocktails and spends most of the time in the wood-panelled bar imbibing, where he engages anyone and everyone who will listen to him about his adventurous daughter!  You would think he approved of me._

_From here we fly to India where I hope to land in Madras then further west to Bombay and on to the Middle East and North Africa before crossing the Continent.  In Cairo we are to be guests of a cousin of King Fuad - I made his acquaintance during the war when we, … never mind, a handy contact._

_The weather so far hasn’t troubled our flight path but it is due to deteriorate over the next couple of weeks, and we will need to rug up against the cold and rain._

_I am well overdue for a drink so will bid you adieu dearest Jack.  Although to be sitting with you in the Long Bar with a Singapore Sling is what I would much prefer than propping up father and any of the flotsam and jetsam he has managed to collect._

_I have no idea when you will receive this but I understand there is a good air postal service between here and Australia._

_You will write to me won’t you Jack?  I expect a letter from you to be waiting for me in London._

_Yours_

_Phryne_


	2. Chapter 2

_September 15, 1929_

_Dear Phryne_

_I received you letter today from Singapore following your telegrams. I keep your household up to date and they are as relieved as I am whenever we hear from you. I will not sleep soundly until I know you are safe on English soil. I am assuming that this letter will meet you in London._

_City South remains very much as you left it.  The past days have been spent with paper work and the past few evenings with drunken brawls.  I am currently investigating one of these that appears to have led to the murder of a dock worker last night who had connections with the sly grog trade.  It also seems that a vicious break-in and assault on a defenceless woman may now be related. She was attacked while home alone, and it eventuates that her nephew who boards with her is a dock worker, so I am concerned there may be a connection. I might even need the resources of Albert Johnson on this one. I hope  it will be a straight-forward case of gang rivalry fuelling affray; that the young woman attacked was an innocent bystander and that there is not a separate matter of a violent house breaker at large to be investigated. Were you here I am sure you would tell me otherwise but to date, remarkably, I haven’t come across a single witness or suspect who claims any association with you._

_Eugene Fisher will be committed for trial in the coming weeks.  He remains steadfastly detached from his crimes and offers no plausible counter to the allegations against him. I cannot see that he will not hang. England’s deserter will remain so although the authorities are now aware of his existence of course.  But their pull for a case of desertion is not stronger than that for which he has been confined here. I doubt there will be a successful request for him to face court-martial there. I will rely on your interference on these matters should it be required! I do not know how all this will impact on your dealings with your father’s estate and financial circumstances. It will be complicated. You never know, Russell Street may need to send me to England as witness for the prosecution._

_What with you gone, and Collins not due back from his honeymoon until tomorrow, I am feeling quite orphaned.  But I have had my office to myself, interrogated suspects and managed to complete whole sentences without interruption._

_But in reality I miss you. I miss you already. My life, my work, my routines are all the same.  It’s just you’re not here.  I imagine it is different for you.  Your life is changed and exciting, with new challenges every day, not the least the flight across the world._

_Tell me your plans Phryne.  Tell me of your purpose in England.  How long do you intend to stay? I must understand.  You know that I can never simply drop everything here to come after you, although pursuing you is what I am determined to do.  In that I speak from the heart and not with the head. What do you anticipate once your parents are reconciled?  How will you assist them with their lost assets?  If you are resolved to remain there long term then I must know. I’ve consulted leave, my financial position, opportunities for transfer – but all prospects seem to be abandon and fancy rather than_ _caution and reason. And you know me too well to suppose I would consider the former._

_Give me to drink mandragora, that I might sleep out this great gap of time you are away.(1)_

_Yours affectionately,_

_Jack_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) from Anthony and Cleopatra  
> Cleopatra asks her maid to bring her the sleep-inducing drug of mandragora (from the mandrake root) as she is suffering Anthony's absence.


	3. Chapter 3

The docks were unusually quiet with a cool night breeze bringing wafts of brine and oil and seaweed into their nostrils.  Chains and ropes rattled and clanged causing them to constantly avert their gazes to the left and right as they proceeded slowly, Hugh Collins always a step or two behind his senior, notebook poised. DI Jack Robertson motioned him to be silent as they approached one of the warehouses where a dim light showed through the cracks in wooden panels.  Shadows of winches, hoists and windlasses played havoc with their approach, each movement a potential threat. Murmuring became more audible.

They peered through cracks in the walls to see the outline of a group of men inside, surrounded by crates and indiscriminate cargo. They listened for what seemed an age until an exchange put D I Robinson’s senses on alert.

“… the next shipment. Arriving Tuesday.”

“Carrying what?”

 “Panther piss.”

“They’re taking on wool from Harrisons, loading Wednesday so we’ll need to get in Tuesday night.”

“There’ll be a watch.”

“Sorted.”

“How do we know Ferret’s boys won’t know about it?”

“We don’t. But we think our information is solid and our mate is on side. Unless someone here snitched.”

A silence followed the exchange.

DI Jack Robinson motioned Collins to move away, and once they were well out of earshot spoke, “So they will unload the grog on Tuesday night and the rivals are Ferret Fennell’s lot. We’ll need plenty of men.  All right Collins, come on, we’ll call it a night.” He paused, “Good to have you back Collins.”

“Good to be back sir.  Thank you sir.”

“Shall I drop you back to St Kilda?”

Jack felt a cross between envy and nostalgia when he pulled up outside the house he knew so well.  Mr and Mrs Hugh Collins were to share the servants’ quarters while the mistress was away.  It ensured their independence from Mrs Collins senior and valuable savings in rent.

“Will you come in sir? Um… to say hello to Dottie?” Hugh felt the awkwardness of the moment.

“No thank Collins.  I’ll go and see Miss Martin in the hospital on the way home. I want to see if her nephew Barry Walsted, a dock worker who boards with her, might be caught up in this. 

“I can see Miss Martin tomorrow if you want sir.  You need a statement about the attack in her home?”

“Yes. I think there’s a connection.  But you have an early night.  Send my regards to Mrs Collins.”

________________________________

He spoke to the nursing staff and asked about Miss Martin’s condition and learned she was conscious and he could speak to her. She was lying in her bed, her head swathed in bandages, as was one arm and leg, her face bruised and swollen; a younger woman by her side.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” he apologised, “DI Robinson from City South,” he held out his ID, “I can come back tomorrow.  You have a visitor.”

The woman shook her head and motioned with her good arm for him to sit down.

“It’s all right Inspector.  This is my niece, Louise.  Come up from the country.”  Her voice was slow and measured.

“Oh I see.”  He held his hand out to her, “Inspector Jack Robinson.  I’m investigating your aunt’s assault.”

“It’s awful isn’t it?  I’ve come to look after her.”  She moved aside for Jack to sit closer to her aunt.

“Miss Martin, do you remember anything more of the attack?  Has anything come back to you?”

“Yes, yes perhaps.  I have been thinking about it. I think now there were two of them.  I let them in.  They just knocked on the door and I let them in.”

“So they didn’t break in. Did they introduce themselves?  Say who they were or why they were at your door?”

“Now that you ask, I think they said something about Barry or having a message for Barry.”

“Barry was at work at the time?  At the docks?”

“I can’t really remember, perhaps he was due to finish his shift and they mentioned his name.  So I thought they must have been friends or come to see him.”

“Can you remember anything at all about their looks? Height, facial features, sounds of their voices?  Anything at all?”

“One was very tall and I remember thinking it wasn’t very polite that they didn’t take their hats off when they came in so I don’t remember their faces, then everything else is blank. I think they just pushed inside and the next thing I remember is coming around, being on the floor, and Barry and the neighbours clustered around, then I ended up here.  I’m sorry Inspector.”

“Their voices, accents?” Jack persisted.

“From here.  Not foreign.” Her voice became more feeble and she sank back into the pillows as she spoke, as if the effort had exhausted her.

“I’ll need to speak more to your nephew, to Barry,” and turning to the niece said, “is he at home do you know?”

“I don’t know.  He met me at the station today  - he’s my brother - and then brought me here this afternoon.  I don’t know what shift he’s on.”

“My niece is from Mansfield.  Well we all are.  She’s my sister’s girl,” the voice came from the bed.

“What work does Barry do on the docks?”

 “Well I don’t rightly know.  He unloads the cargo from what I understand, from the ships.  Works long hours and it’s hard work but it’s a job and they are becoming harder to come by.  Been with me for a few months now.  A few months isn’t  it Lou?”

Louise nodded, her brown eyes turned to him, “Three months yes.  Since June.”

“Have any of the other workers been to your home?  Do his friends from the docks come around?  Does he speak of anyone in particular?”

“No-one to speak of.  He tends to keep to himself.  He doesn’t have many friends.  He’s been here such a short time, he’s hardly had a chance to make friends.”  She closed her eyes and her niece got up and offered her some water.

“I’ll go, you are very tired.  And I’m glad you’ve got your niece with you.  Are you staying on Miss Walsted or may I drop you home?”

 “That would be kind Inspector,” interrupted her aunt. “Barry may be there but I’d feel easier if you were to drive her. I suppose it must be dark out.”

“It’s on my way.  I hope you have a good night’s sleep Miss Martin.  I’ll be back in touch or one of the police officers, Constable Collins.”

The niece put on her coat then her hat, wisps of wavy brown hair escaping from their enclosure, and walked briskly by his side.

“So is this your first stay in the city?” asked Jack.

“I have visited my aunt before but never stayed long, so this is my first planned stay of any length. The circumstances for visiting aren’t really ideal as I’ll be spending my days at the hospital, but I shall be here until my aunt is better.  So I hope to see more of it and appreciate all it has to offer.  I can let you know what I think of it then.”

Jack was surprised by her eloquence and confidence.  He opened the car door for her, “So you are looking forward to some getting out and about  then?”

“Yes.  I’ve lived in Mansfield all my life with my parents and brother.  But with Barry here, I always planned to visit and perhaps find work.”

“What would you like to do?”

“There isn’t much for girls like me.  I’d like to work in a bookshop really but I think a kitchen help, or cleaning or a lady’s maid are more likely. I love reading and I think I could manage very nicely in an environment surrounded by books.  Not necessarily a passion shared by other members of my family.”

“You stayed at school then?”

“Yes, til I was 16.  I didn’t want to leave.  I work in the hospital at Mansfield in the kitchen now.  My parents are hoping when my aunt is a little better she can be transferred to the hospital there – that’s what they have commissioned me to find out.  But I’m secretly hoping otherwise, that I can stay here with her, in the city.”

“You fancy life would be better?”

“Yes I expect so. I shan’t stay in the country all my life.  It would be killing,” she paused and smiled,  “Oh, so to speak.  What an inappropriate expression to use with a policeman!”

They drove up to the house in Sandridge, a small weatherboard cottage that was in complete darkness.

“Perhaps Barry isn’t home?” suggested Jack, “I’ll see you inside.”

“No doesn’t look like it.  Thank you but I’ll be alright. I’m not scared.”

“I can see that. Nonetheless, I’ll see you in.”

She turned on lights and headed down a dim hallway, “Would you like some tea? I think I should be able to find my way around to make some.”

“You are very kind, but no thank you.  How will you spend the evening?”

“I have some books.”

“What are you reading?”

“Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises, do you know it?”

“Yes, I do, although I find his novels rather depressing.  Not to be read unless the mood is right.” He immediately changed the topic of conversation and turned to go, “Perhaps you can let Barry know that I’d like to talk to him.  I’ll see what shift he is on and make a time, or he can come to see me at the station.” He handed Louise Walsted his card, “Good night.”

She looked carefully at the card and smiled.

DI Robinson got back into the car and sighed. He wished he were going to St Kilda for a nightcap and had Phryne to talk to about all this.  He made a mental note: see if Dr Macmillan can compare Miss Martin’s injuries with those inflicted on the murder victim at the docks – the implement perhaps; and more importantly find all his copies of Hemingway and pass them on to Louise Walsted who was obviously young, enthusiastic and positive enough to read about love, war, wilderness and loss; Hemingway’s themes too dangerously close to his own biography for his liking or comfort.


	4. Chapter 4

_20 September_

_Dear Phryne_

_Collins is back at work, returned from his honeymoon and he and Mrs Collins are happily living at your home.  It was kind of you to offer them quarters there while you are away. They are appreciative I know and it will allow them to get ahead with savings. They are company for Mr Butler too and will help keep an eye on things for you. He tells me the weather was fine in Sorrento and their accommodation excellent and I understand Collins did not insist on casting his line despite the availability of quantities of the local whiting. But it is good to have him in the office and Mrs Collins has been a regular visitor these past days and brings us samples of her cooking. We all like talking of you and we miss you less when we do. I do feel though a certain amount of envy at his enjoying your hospitality as it were, while I do not. But I am becoming reacquainted with my own parlour and with rougher varieties of whiskey._

_I mentioned in my letter of a few days’ ago the case of the murder at the docks and an assault that I suspected was related.  We have made good progress. If I write to you about it, it will make my reports easier to construct and I can pretend I am sitting in your parlour going through it all with you and one of Mr Butler’s cocktails._

_A young woman was savagely attacked in her home – broken bones in her arm and leg, severe facial bruising and abrasions.  She’s lucky to be alive. Her nephew, a Barry Walsted, is her boarder and found work recently at the docks at Sandridge, the scene of a fatal attack around the same time.  The murder victim, a Sam Chenery, had connections with one of two rival gangs who “import” sly grog and find outlets for it with some of the hoteliers and coffee houses in town.  The alcohol is legitimate cargo on incoming vessels, mostly whiskey from Britain, but there was some doctoring of the import quotas which meant cases could be stolen before customs could account for them.  We suspect there is someone within the customs office who is supplying information to the gangs or could be pivotal._

_Poor young Barry Walsted seems to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time and overheard a conversation in relation to wool shipments being the cover for the exchange of cargo, with his seeming to be associated with a rival gang of sly grog traders. The attack on his aunt was a warning._

_Dr MacMillan was able to give me some connections with both the murder weapon used on Sam Chenery and the weapon that was used in the assault on Barry Walsted’s aunt. Albert Johnson provided some useful information can I say, although though that won’t be in the report; and he has taken young Barry under his wing to ensure the young lad can get on with his work, and in the right company. So you see, your influence is omnipresent - I am sure your friends only provide me with any kind of assistance because of their association with you!_

_The sly grog gangs have been broken and it looks like the murder and assault have been solved.  Now just the endless paper work, prosecution briefings and court proceedings._

_Miss Martin, the assault victim, is making slow progress and it appears will be weeks if not months in hospital or in need of home care.  Her niece, Barry’s sister, is caring for her presently and visits her daily in the hospital and intends to extend that care when Miss Martin is discharged.  Miss Louise Walsted is a young woman of some intellect with an interest in reading and keen to better her prospects that are at present a hospital kitchen or lady’s maid.  She is literate and bookish.  Were you here I know you would do something for her.  Do you have any ideas at all?  She is determined to stay in the city and dreads a return to Mansfield, where the family is located. A bookshop perhaps or work in a school?_

_I shall look forward every day to the postman delivering news from you._

_Yours affectionately,_

_Jack_


	5. Chapter 5

_Claridge’s_

_Brook Street, Mayfair_ _  
London_

_12 October 1929_

_Dearest Jack_

_You will have received my telegrams so would have been able to follow our route. We spent several days in Cairo where we were very luxuriously accommodated by Kamal Hussein and his extended family. Father was loath to leave and could have stayed forever, particularly as predictions for rain and storms over Europe were never ending. I think he enjoys the good life and has great fears about what he has in front of him so was more than happy to indulge in the pleasures on offer - all above board may I add._

_I have read your letters dated 15 and 20 September several times – they both arrived yesterday! The sly grog trade, affray on the docks, innocent women under attack in their own homes – I am missing honorary membership of your constabulary already!  I really do Jack._

_As for your Miss Walsted, I have written to my friend Max De Pledge at the library of the Athenaeum Club and arranged some work as a library assistant and if she is as clever as you say, she may be able to do some training as a librarian.  How would that be?  And I will ask Dot to look in on her and be her friend. Is she pretty as well as clever?  If so, I may change my mind._

_I think I should state up front that I write poorly, with little style, so you will need to forgive me if my correspondence is less than you expect. However, I have every intention of perfecting the art over the coming months._

_As we, evidently, are arrived safely I am pleased your sleep will be sounder although I do not know why you should have worried. The trip was quite exhilarating! I am now ensconced in a suite here at Claridge’s and very comfortable.  I have plenty of room…_

_Now the work begins.  Father and mother are re-united and will need some time to sort out things in terms of their relationship.  He has a lot to tell her and she is to be convinced. They are in their house in Russell Sq that is the only part of the estate that remains (but is now heavily mortgaged). I have kept out of their way for now although they dine with me here at the hotel tomorrow night.  We will need to get to the bottom of their financial woes._

_Why do I feel that my father has still not told me everything?  I wanted to believe he was sincere when he said that his actions were to protect us, that he wanted to be a good husband and father after what he had been, that he wanted to sustain the lifestyle we had so recently inherited, by concealing Eugene Fisher’s existence.  That he himself felt protected by Eugene Fisher’s desertion I am not sure. Can a leopard change his spots?  There is no question that he was irresponsible, recalcitrant, even cruel when we were children – a gambler and a drunk. Can he have been as protective of us as he claims, once Eugene Fisher emerged? Was Eugene in receipt of vast sums of money from the sale of the estate?  If so, surely that could now be recovered.  Can you pursue bank accounts Eugene Fisher may have established in Melbourne? I will need to do the same here. If the monies from the estate have not all gone to his cousin, perhaps there are partial truths everywhere – a combination of extortion by Eugene Fisher, flamboyant and profligate spending, gambling, alcohol – who knows?  But I will need some time yet to see what there is to know._

_I will be here until I can get them back on their feet financially. Father will need to be honest with me for once. So I cannot say when I will return.  But you know I could do with you here. You would want for nothing Jack Robinson – you would not have to consider your finances at all. And you could assist me with my enquiries. Now that would be a change!_

_I have an old friend, another Captain from war days, but not an old friend like Captain Compton, who is to fly to Australia in an attempt to break the existing record so I’ve asked him to post all my letters  there – it will save weeks with sea mail._

_Yours, as ever,_

_Phryne_


	6. Chapter 6

_City South_

_28 October 1929_

_Dear Phryne_

_Your letter was hand-delivered by Captain McCutchen this evening which was very decent of him, but I understand he has family nearby in Hawthorn. So we had a drink and toasted your good health. You did say you didn’t know him as you knew Group Captain Compton didn’t you? It is a shame he did not break the London-Darwin flying record - by just two days - but he said he was not averse to giving it another try.  There is considerable prize money on offer for anyone who does so._

_Re: the Eugene Fisher case. He is to stand trial next month for the murders as well as the lesser charges of abduction.  The British navy are awaiting the outcome before pressing ahead with court-martial proceedings.  On the matter of bank accounts, we have found some indication that he may have opened an account in July of this year and there is some money in it, several hundred pounds, but hardly an amount that would relate to the sale of the estate.  If your father was giving him greater sums it must be elsewhere - in England perhaps. I can pursue from here too but you may need to find some leads; I will continue to see what I can discover._

_We are hearing very persistent reports of a crash of the American stock market.  The rapid expansion over the past months and the recent wild speculation seem to have provoked a serious fall. And there are divided views of its impact on Britain let alone here, with some adamant that there will be no adverse repercussions and others arguing just as vehemently of impending doom and gloom across the globe.  My prospects of work in London are good if the opinions of the former apply, they are dim if the views of the latter pertain._

_Thank you for your efforts on behalf of Miss Walsted.  Her aunt has little improved and cannot walk unassisted and has been left an equally damaging nervous trauma of some kind.  A library is perfectly suited to her niece and will guarantee her staying in the city with her aunt and surrounded by books._

_You say you are to be away months? I don’t think I can last that long. So I am not at all averse to joining you if that is what you want, and if I can be considered for a temporary post of some kind within the Met or even Scotland Yard.  I am sure The Hon Phryne Fisher can exert more influence there than any of those in the Commissioner’s office in Russell Street. And I would need to secure a return to my post here or something similar. I cannot live off your means; you know I could never accept that, not for any period of time, not under any circumstances._

_A time in London would remind me of my R and R leave during the war, although as you know I tended to opt for Paris rather than London. But we could go to Paris for a trip, couldn’t we, together? Paris may provide you with some mixed emotions but I would be quite determined to ensure you came away feeling it was the most romantic city in the world._

_Yours affectionately,_

_Jack_

 


	7. Chapter 7

Louise Walsted’s work at the Athenaeum Club was bliss and she secretly hoped her aunt’s condition might hasten slowly to improvement, to prolong the need for her to stay with her in the city. For the time being her aunt could not do without her but importantly she could not do without her aunt.

 The Library and Reading Room housed a well-established collection that was part of a club that provided lectures, adult education classes, a museum, and performance spaces. The young girl’s thirst for knowledge and excitement could scarcely be quenched.  Music, the visual arts, literature, science, film and theatre were promoted, the club being a hub for a regular membership of Melbourne’s cultured middle class rather than an organisation for working men as it was originally intended.

 She happily tidied, shelved, fetched and became an expert in the card catalogue system and got to know the regular members as they accessed books and newspapers from around Australia and overseas in the comfortable surrounds.  It was open from 8.00am to 10.00pm so that members working in the city could use the facilities before and after work for both recreation and networking, and Louise made herself available for any hours the librarians required.

 Soon after starting work she called into the City South police station, either before or after her shift.  Ostensibly to thank him for his support to her family and the solving of the crime, and to give him news of her aunt and brother; then it was to return his copies of Hemingway; and finally to meet up on occasions with her new friend Dorothy Collins. 

 Then there became no need to find an excuse for her presence, she kept him up to date with the latest books made available at the library and DI Robinson in turn brought her books from his collection and introduced her to F Scott Fitzgerald, a publication of short stories Flappers and Philosophers and the novel The Great Gatsby.  For the young woman it was an association made in heaven.  She could not believe her situation, that the chance horrific circumstances that had befallen her aunt had brought her a dream position in a prominent library, a friendship with the charming and helpful Mrs Collins, protection for her brother by the rather rough but affable Bert Johnson, and perhaps most importantly an acquaintance with a handsome, kind man, a truer gentleman she could never hope to meet. At times she fancied herself a character in one of the F Scott Fitzgerald short stories and wondered whether age and despair would overtake the promise her future seemed to now have in store. 

 She was, as Phryne feared, pretty as well as clever.  Wavy brown hair was constantly battling pins, ties and clips so wisps curled and floated around her neck and face, high cheek bones underlined doe-like eyes which suggested unspoken depths, lips were semi-permanently pursed in contemplation or interest; and a slender waist and arms allowed carefully home-made dresses to hang with some style around her hips and drape seemingly carelessly from her shoulders.

 Her reflective nature drew her to the mysterious Hon Phryne Fisher who seemed to have assisted her from afar - in her finding employment and introducing her to a new friend.  Mrs Collins spoke of her in glowing terms, of her own development from maid to companion to assistant under her mentorship, and of the work this private investigator did with the Detective Inspector.  The nature of the relationship between the two detectives – one private, one public servant, was less clear, and it intrigued her. Mrs Collins could give her no advice at all as to the relationship between Miss Fisher and DI Robinson, apart from an excellent working relationship, so the young girl happily allowed her fancies to fly. 

 Being astute as well clever she found it relatively easy to contrive his interests – in discussing reading and the books he liked with him, and in veering conversations with Mrs Collins and occasionally her husband Constable Collins in his direction when it seemed appropriate.  She learned that he had been married but was no longer, that he liked poetry and Shakespeare, that he preferred classical music and opera to lighter forms of entertainment, that he was a gardener and had scientific knowledge of plants, that he had served in the war as a Lance Corporal on the Western Front, and that he was known as an excellent policeman, with an unwavering sense of duty.

 There was so much more about him that fascinated her though – not only his similar interest in literature, his dashing good looks and his immaculate manners.  But something much deeper, there was a sadness in his eyes and a reserve that implied a wretchedness, some silent melancholy. In her mind DI Jack Robinson became her own, to secretly cherish until their love could be realised and whatever it was that seemed to impede his happiness, she would absolve.  

 For Jack, Louise Walsted was a pleasant distraction to the tedium of his office-based work.  He enjoyed her calling in to his office when she was due to meet Mrs Collins. It was also as if he, like Phryne, could assist those who found themselves in need of elevation from the lot society and birth had dealt them.  He felt he was carrying a flag for Phryne’s sense of social responsibility, in some small way continuing her work.  And there was a modicum of pleasure in talking to her about books and in seeing her interest and delight in her new surrounds. He was not blind to her admiration of him and he was quietly flattered by her discreet idolatry.  But he saw it as little more than a young girl’s infatuation with apparent status - the law and position and city life, and hoped she would soon find a suitable young man with whom she could step out, to remove her from the constant concern of a return to the country.

 


	8. Chapter 8

_20 November_

_Dearest Jack_

_I love getting your letters.  Please keep writing.  A visit to Paris, and with you, now that is something I could not possibly resist!   And if I cannot convince you to come and visit as my guest, I shall start to make enquiries at Scotland Yard.  Although I may have a way with librarians and Detective Inspectors, my record so far with Police Commissioners has been poor - they seem to take an instant dislike to me!_

_News here is not what any of us want to hear - the estate, or most of it, is gone and it would appear to be a combination of incompetence, unchecked spending, speculation, as well as payments to Eugene Fisher who seems to have some assets we may be able to pursue.  Anything he has would flow to father anyway.  But there is nothing further to scrape together.  Apart from my own means which are currently propping up their mortgage, I am fairly unsure as to what to do._

_There are reports on the wires of dire predictions as a result of the Wall Street crash.  Men in dark suits at this hotel have been meeting in clusters looking worried. It is not a good time to be refinancing or investing and banks are unwilling to lend.  I need to be careful of my own assets.  It is no time for risky ventures.  What to do Jack?  Desperate times may call for desperate measures._

_And it’s cold and dreary day after day.  I need some sunshine to cheer me up. I wish you would come. But at least I will have Jane - she will be here next week and staying through to Christmas which will be fun._

_I remain yours,_

_Phryne_

_  
_


	9. Chapter 9

The library’s place at the heart of the Athenaeum Club allowed Louise Walsted advance knowledge of talks, presentations and performances to which she had access - many of them free of charge, others that required the purchase of a ticket.  A plan slowly dawned upon her.  It was meant to be. The jigsaw of her life was falling into place.  She could never have dreamed it, yet here they were, piece by piece handed to her for assembly.  A miracle, a guardian angel, a force of positive affirmation – call it what you will but something was guiding her, and every fibre of her being was thrilled.

 She was determined to invite Detective Inspector Robinson to an event as soon as one came up that she thought he would find interesting.  She would put it to him as being of professional import, her keeping him informed rather than her true purpose.  A talk to begin with, then perhaps a lecture series.  They might have supper beforehand in the city, or she would prepare some for him if he drove her home afterwards. Then once routine, familiarity and companionship had become established, she would find the perfect occasion - she envisioned something completely romantic – in the club’s recently built intimate theatre, the two of them in a balcony seat or the dress circle watching a performance - a play or a concert.  She would make a new dress, perhaps purchase a silk shawl and borrow her aunt’s necklace; he would wear a dinner jacket.  They would share a programme and talk about the performers, and compare notes at interval as they sipped on champagne.  And afterwards, yes afterwards, he would offer her his arm as he escorted her to the car.  Fellow patrons who were library members would nod to her or introduce themselves as they admired her partner.  And he would know then that he was in love with her and that only she could make him happy as the melancholy that haunted him drained away.

 It was towards the end of the year that the perfect scenario unfolded before her. Every week she had scoured the club’s brochures and advertisements for up-coming happenings, determined to find those that would suit the sequence she needed. It had taken her endless evenings, let alone time to save assiduously for the purchase of tickets for the right formal occasion.  But there it was, the faultless sequence of events over coming weeks and months.

 Event number 1: Frederick Piggott, a detective with the Victoria Police CIB was to present a talk on the new techniques of forensic policing – scientific evidence that complemented witnesses’ and informants’ statements. This senior detective had solved some major cases using the new methods and had travelled across America and Britain to learn from colleagues there about this new science. His results in some infamous cases had dubbed him Melbourne’s very own real-life Sherlock Holmes.  She could invite DI Jack Robinson to attend as this was surely of interest.  A free talk and what could be more appropriate?

 Event number 2: Then a lecture series to be held in one of the club’s halls that was to begin some weeks after this talk from Detective Piggott. It was seamless in terms of her plans.  A lecturer from the nearby University of Melbourne was to present a series on Tuesday evenings over the course of a month: four addresses including images to be presented on a screen, of the expeditions Napoleon had commissioned to Australia. Artist Nicolas Baudin was under orders to gather examples of Australian flora and fauna and return them to French shores particularly for Napoleon's wife, Josephine, a lover of plants and of all things Australian, for her garden at the Château de Malmaison.  She knew her inspector’s interest in plants and horticulture and hadn’t he spent his war years on the Western Front? And Napoleon and Josephine were they not two of the world’s greatest lovers? (She put firmly out of her mind their adulterous relationships and divorce.)

 Then the pièce de résistance!  Event number 3: None other than Dame Nellie Melba was to return to the Athenaeum Club to give one of her farewell performances in the intimate theatre - arias from the operas for which she was so renowned. Now that would cost the young girl all her savings but at what price such an event?

 All she had to do was invite him to the first talk, and watch her design unfold.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

_21 December_

_Dear Phryne_

_The days are long and hot and with the festive season approaching thoughts naturally turn to family and friends.  Your parents must be happy to have you close and I’m glad that Jane will be with you._

_Thank you for the parcel and I felt like Father Christmas distributing the gifts to your household and to Dr Macmillan, receiving all the accolades but deserving none of them.  I like the tie very much and shall think of you whenever I wear it (so I am determined to wear it often).  I hope your gift arrived safely.  Using the force’s overseas postal services seems to be assisting rapidity of delivery._

_Mr and Mrs Collins have negotiated a truce with both families and will be sharing time with each.  Mr Butler is going to a cousin I believe.  I will be going to my sister in Sydney all being well here and I can get away._

_Now that Eugene Fisher’s trial is concluded I feel a burden lifted and I hope it has brought a sense of an ending to your family.  I am relieved the trial at least is over before Christmas.  Sentencing will be January, pending appeals of course._

_I don’t like the sound of the “desperate measures” you may need to put in place.  Take care, please!_

_I am making no headway with any kind of time away from the force without a resignation.  I hope you understand that that would be a perilous position for me – both in terms of financial security and future career prospects.  Even though the thought of months without you seems equally perilous._

_I shall drink a toast to you on Christmas day and wish I were with you there or you with me here._

_Affectionately,_

_Jack_

* * *

 

_21 December 1929_

_Dearest Jack_

_The books arrived, the Antony and Cleopatra - how can I forget your monologue in praise of Cleopatra’s allure? And the collection of TS Eliot poems - I love them already.  “The Wasteland” is hauntingly, devastatingly beautiful but I think “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” is my favourite. There are so many verses from it that I repeat to myself, it makes me giddy.  It was such a thoughtful gift. And so you._

_I am writing this knowing it will be delivered after Christmas, and deliberately so. It is the hardest letter I have ever, or will ever, write and I admit to not knowing how to phrase it. I wish I were there with you to say this, to explain.  But we never did really talk did we? We always skirted around our feelings and spoke in riddles._

_Trust me when I say that my feelings for you will never change.  You are the nicest, most genuine man I have ever met and I will always care for you deeply.  Pictures of you play constantly in my mind – a kaleidoscope of images on a screen: quiet, serious, teasing, calm, smiling, learned, puzzled, determined, clever, honourable._

_But I am to be married.  There I have written it, it is said.  By the time you read this, it will be done. To Lord Danby, on January 16.  He is a kind and gentle man whose first wife died some years ago.  They had one child, a son, Viscount St John, who is now an adult and is to inherit the title and estates from his father – Alexander Danby is an earl.  He is in need of someone to help him entertain and manage his household, as all this is beginning to be beyond him.  He is a very wealthy man having made an independent fortune in manufacturing steel for the railways.  On the marriage I am to receive an extremely generous endowment. My parents’ difficulties will be resolved and I will have a relatively independent life.  Lord Danby is not young and will make few demands apart from those I have already mentioned._

_Believe me Jack, this is not what I have ever wanted.  It goes against every fibre of my being. There is little point me stating my unhappiness as I doubt you will believe me. But it is to be, it must be. I shall write to Aunt P and Mac and Dot in a week or so but you may tell them if you wish.  I want you to be the first to know and not hear of it from anyone else.  It will be in the papers soon enough._

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

               “That is not it at all,

               That is not what I meant, at all.” (2)

_Please write back.  Don’t abandon me._

_Love_

_Phryne_

* * *

 

**Telegram**

Dear Lady Danby stop I wish you every happiness stop sincerely Jack Robinson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2) from The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock


	11. Chapter 11

Jack Robinson felt sick for a period after receiving the news - a sinking, dying feeling in the pit of his stomach that would not go away.  One day melted into another as he lost his grip on the centre of his being  – it was as if he were waiting for something, but he didn’t know what he was waiting for.  There was no marker, no buoy to provide an indication of a turning point.  There was no end, just waiting, for something.

He was short-tempered and intolerant at work, morose and inebriated at home. He fluctuated from blaming himself to resentment, from resentment to disbelief. 

Why had he not simply left work and followed her?  Why had he procrastinated? DI Robinson, the careful, the balanced, the patient, the uncompromising, was rarely swayed by emotion. He had consulted his leave entitlements, transfer options, his bank balance, his mortgage repayments and hadn’t seen how he could make his way to England to join her and be away for months without a firm prospect of work in London or work in Melbourne on his return. 

He had assumed she would come back. To her home, to her household, to him.  Rationality and reason, caution and conservatism had outweighed risk and abandon, flight and fancy. Had he gone, had he ignored his better judgement, had he followed his heart not his head, things would have been different now.

He could not think of her without feeling bitter about what had happened.  Finally, after all the time, all the talking, the teasing, the banter, the suggestions, the stream of liberal-minded men, he had had the confidence to kiss her as he’d wanted for so long.  And she had wanted him.  Was his refusal to follow her, his refusal to accept her support, the reason for her decision?  An act of churlishness on her part, even though she seemed to speak otherwise?

Then he’d think it was simply a bad dream, and waking up everything would be different. He would take out the pile of letters from his desk drawer, unfold and re-read them. He had done this so many times that the creases in the folds were beginning to tear.  But the final letter always read the same way.

The worst was telling Collins, so he could pass it on to Mrs Collins and Mr Butler. He’d had to tell him without emotion, as if he were simply passing on another piece of her news.  As if he personally felt nothing more than the disappointment they would all feel, that he was pleased for the prospects this presented for her parents and the estate, the harmony that this would bring to Miss Fisher’s relationship with her family, the opportunities she would have to visit.

But he had got through it, just.  He chose not to speak to Dr McMillan, she could wait until she received her letter from Phryne herself and as for Mrs Stanley, he could imagine her glee and didn’t want to witness any part of it.

The days were long and tedious, and he would look forward, if there were anything to which he could look forward, to the nights to prove some comfort - he could be alone with his thoughts. “Come after me Jack Robinson.”  The taste of her lips, the feel of her skin, the tone of her voice, the smile that hung around her lips, the looks back as she ran to the plane.  He would lie awake in bed and re-watch her running towards him, re-hear her imperative for him to come after her,  re-taste her lips, re-touch her skin, re-feel  her responses, then imagine what it would be like making love to her. His and his alone.

It was on one of these lonely evenings that he was stirred from his irritated pondering by a knock at the door.  He sighed.  An emergency at work – an accident, a death, that required his presence.

“Dr MacMillan!”

“Jack.”  She held up a bottle of whiskey with one eyebrow raised in sympathy.

He gave her a slight nod and stood back to let her in. He then led her past the second bedroom he had reclaimed as a study in his semi-detached home in South Yarra.  The room with its worn rugs and comfortable leather armchairs gave onto the small front garden, a riot of summer blooms.  Down the hall was the main bedroom then a parlour, dining area and kitchen opened onto each other. “I thought you could do with some quality whiskey.  My interest is purely remedial - I don’t like the thought of what that inferior stuff must be doing to your liver.”  She gesticulated disapprovingly towards the bottle on the coffee table.

Jack gave a polite smirk and went to retrieve some glasses and motioned her to sit down.  The room was tastefully furnished with a velour fabric couch and two dark wooden arm chairs with tapestry upholstery and the polished oak floor covered with a patterned rug. A single striking watercolour of a seascape featured on one wall. He placed the proffered bottle of whiskey on the sideboard next to the light featuring a female figure holding the ball of the lamp.

“So, you’ve heard the news then?”

“How are you Jack? Or should I not ask?”

“You’re the physician.”  He handed her a glass with a generous serve of whiskey and sat heavily in the arm chair opposite her.

“I would say that you are disappointed, possibly devastated, and that you have had no-one with whom you can share how you really feel.  That every day you go through a charade of pretending that you are not affected by the fact that the woman with whom you are in love is married to another, with no rhyme or reason for her decision; that you feel her act, justified as financially fortuitous, is anathema to her principles and defies logic, let alone sense. In sum, I diagnose that you are gutted.”  She paused, “How close am I?”

He looked at the ochre liquid in his glass, swirled it a few times, then downed half of it in one gulp. “Pretty close.”

“So apart from drinking yourself into a stupor, what are you going to do?”

“I know I have to get over it, but not quite sure how quite frankly.  I can’t go away, can’t take leave, I would just drown in self-pity.  I’m my own worst enemy at the moment.”

“And I imagine you haven’t had a decent meal for a while, so once you’ve downed the other half, we are going out for meal.”  She raised her glass, “Down the hatch!”

“I’d really rather not.  I’m in no fit state. And I would be wretched company.  And I react poorly to sympathy.”

“You wanted a diagnosis but I’m also giving you a prescription. I see it as my Hippocratic duty and I promise I’ll give you no sympathy. Nor am I desperate for your company – whatever shape it’s in. But I’m prepared to put up with you. We’ll go somewhere discreet where no-one cares how you look or who you are.  Come on.”

He reluctantly raised himself out of his chair, made no adjustment to his loosened tie, flung his coat over his shoulder and followed her outside with an unsteady swagger.

* * *

 

He had never been to Claudio’s nor even knew of its existence, a small restaurant with only a lit doorway to indicate its entrance, in a lane way off Lygon Street.  Dark stone walls were hung with images of Italy, and wooden tables were covered in red and white check cloths. Dr MacMillan was obviously a regular and Claudio greeted her warmly and some patrons nodded. Mac ordered for both of them and Claudio put his hand on Mac’s shoulder as he poured two glasses of Chianti from a raffia bottle.

“She didn’t ask you to do this did she?” Jack waited for Carlo to withdraw.

“No.  But she did let me know that she was concerned about your reaction to her letter.  You sent her a telegram?”

“Yes.  I couldn’t bring myself to write. At least with a telegram, brevity is essential.”

“Will you write?”

“I can’t see myself doing that at the moment. Hopefully I’ll forget she ever existed and then there’ll be no cause unless something comes up in the Eugene Fisher appeal that requires her attention.”

“Has he appealed the verdict?”

“Yes, of course, but we’ve yet to see the detail.  I can hand it on to someone else if necessary.” He paused as a steaming bowl of pasta and meat sauce was put between them followed by a basket of bread. “Do you have any idea why she married him?”

“No, but there’s more to it than financial security if I know Phryne.”

“What?  You genuinely think she’s fallen in love with him?”

“No.  I genuinely think there’s more to it.  I don’t know what it is, but it will come out.  She’s hinted there’s an explanation but we shall have to wait and see.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, “I sent her a book of TS Eliot’s poems for Christmas - do you know them?  In that last letter she quoted from The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock, the verses seemed to suggest she wanted to tell me something else but couldn’t.”  He paused, sighed and shook his head, “I just have to move on.”

“Except that you’re in love with her.”

“Except for that.”

“Don’t you want a partner?”

He had never in his life been the end of such direct statements and questioning. “I’m not sure I’m used to being interrogated in this way.  Are you giving me a taste of my own medicine? …A partner? Doesn’t everyone? Fundamentally aren’t we drawn to another to complement our lives?” He felt awkward once he had spoken, given Mac’s personal circumstances, but then relaxed; there was something about the venue, his state of inebriation, her persistence and directness. “It’s just that I seem to be a dismal failure at it.”

“So am I. Doesn’t mean I’ll give up.  And you’re rather harsh declaring yourself a failure at this point in time.  I’ve heard you’ve had your fair share of admirers recently.”

“But there’s only one I want.  I waited long enough for her.  There’ll be no-one else like her.”

“She is one of a kind I’ll give you that. I love her too you know.”

“It’s not hard to do,” he mused. “Clever, fearless, confident, she never forgot her roots and defends those who haven’t her chances to get out of that milieu, glamorous, … and utterly gorgeous.”

“Don’t deny yourself companionship because she isn’t Phryne Fisher. You can still be happy, even if not in a state of ecstasy.” Jack didn’t look convinced but the generous proportions of food and being able to talk about the woman he loved, to someone who had admitted to loving her too, was comforting. Mac continued, “And please feed yourself.  You’re skin and bones at the best of times.  You can’t afford to live on rough whiskey and the occasional biscuit.”

“Well I know about this place now don’t I?”

“And I imagine you’re not the most pleasant boss at the moment.”

 “Yes, I’ve probably been a misery at work.”

“I’m sure you have.”

“Did Collins tell you that?”

She lit a cigarette and leaned back in her chair. “Hugh and Dot are not oblivious to your feelings, no matter how hard you try to hide them.  You’re not an island.  And perhaps you need to look at re-joining the land of the living and stop thinking you’re the only person in the world to have loved and lost.” 

“Do I remind you of a cadaver?”

“I see plenty of dead people.  Fortunately I can spot he difference.” She stood up, “Come on I’ll drive you home and you don’t even need to think about whether you should ask me out again or kiss me goodnight!”

“I hope we can go out again.  Thank you Dr MacMillan.”


	12. Chapter 12

She went to the bathroom before leaving work and re-did her hair and put the faintest smear of petroleum jelly on her lips.  She would ask him about his Christmas break and tell him about hers, then casually mention the talk with Detective Inspector Piggott.

Constable Collins was at the desk and gave her a new year’s greeting.  He had enjoyed the festive season thank you and Mrs Collins was well. 

“Is DI Robinson back?”

As she headed towards DI Jack Robinson’s office, the constable seemed to caution her, “Ah… Inspector Robinson is very busy.  I don’t think he wants to be disturbed.”

“Does he have someone with him?”

“No but there’s been a fair bit on his mind lately and he may not appreciate any um… anything getting in his way.”

“Very well, I’ll be quick… if that’s alright?  I just have a message for him.”  She looked so disappointed that Hugh melted and let her go to the door and knock.

“What?” a familiar but rather short-tempered voice came from inside the office.

She tentatively opened the door and was surprised at the scene before her.  He was sitting at his usual place behind the desk but looked different - slightly dishevelled - as if his shirt hadn’t been pressed properly, his tie not quite done up, his hair not in place, a lock flopping over his forehead. He looked up at her and scarcely smiled.

“Miss Walsted.  Happy New Year.  How are you?”

Louise felt he was simply going through the motions of politeness and was instantly wary.

“I am well thank you.  And how was your Christmas?”

“It was very pleasant.  And yours?”

“Oh dear”, she thought, “This is not what I imagined.”  But she persisted. “It was lovely.  Mum and Dad came up from home and spent a few days with us.  We were a bit crowded of course but it was fun.   Mum and Dad had Barry’s room and he bunked in with me in the lounge. ”

Jack gave a polite laugh. “That does sound cosy, but nice to have all your family with you.  How is your Aunt, how is Miss Martin?”

“Moving a bit better with the stick now.”  She waited momentarily for him to say something but as nothing eventuated, she continued, “ I showed them all the library and the club and all its facilities.  Mum and Dad  were quite impressed.”

“So they approve of your work?”

“Yes they do. And that’s why I called in actually.” She took a very deep breath.  “There’s a talk on Thursday evening that I thought you might be interested in.” She explained the event with the senior Detective Inspector Frederick Piggott and his work in forensic science.

“He’s quite well known in the force, in the CIB. When is it?”

“Thursday at 6 o’clock.  Shall you come?”

He looked as if he was trying to think of a reason to avoid it. “Um, I’m not sure what I have on so I can’t commit.  How about if I’m free I meet you there at about 10 to six?  If I am not there by then, please assume I’ve been delayed.”  He seemed to check himself and added, “I’ll do my best to come Miss Walsted. Thank you for letting me know.” He looked back down to his papers, “I’m sorry I am in the middle of a number of matters that require my attention.  I can’t offer you tea.”

“Of course not.   I was just heading home to make Aunt her supper.  Please don’t feel any obligation at all, about Thursday.  I just popped in to let you know in case you hadn’t heard of it.  I’m sure you know all about his techniques anyway.  Please don’t worry at all.  I’m sorry I disturbed you.  Goodbye.”

She reversed out of the office and nearly tripped over herself in her haste to leave.  She sensed the blood rising up her cheeks as she recalled the ineptitude of her conversation and then felt the full force of mortification at rejection.

 


	13. Chapter 13

At the heart of the gardens of Abingdon Park was the grand mansion Lord Danby had extensively renovated in his time as the Earl. Behind imposing gates, up a tree-lined driveway was the home designed to enjoy a lifestyle of gentle, relaxed pleasure, eating and drinking well, playing tennis and croquet, watching a season pass in fabulous gardens, taking the occasional bracing walk, and returning to the comfort of an open hearth.

Of the 1000-acre property, thirty were dedicated to one of the loveliest gardens in England, a beautiful mix of hedged walks, rose parterres, tulip lawns dotted with bench seats, a wisteria walk, cedar, pine, elm, beech and linden trees. The rest was working farmlands.

The rooms of the home were well-proportioned, and gave the feeling of opulence and comfort with antique and period furnishings, sitting rooms with deep, comfortable sofas and armchairs and large, open fires.   The formal areas for entertaining had a mixture of Victorian and earlier period furniture, but modernised with the pastel hues now fashionable; the ambience was serene and interesting, creating a French provincial feel. 

Portraits of the family’s forbears and scenic oil paintings hung the walls in foyers and stairways. The corridors were adorned with the family’s collectables from days gone by and countries far away. The library was filled with contemporary and antique volumes and display cases of the current Lord’s railway memorabilia. All the rooms had views, whether of the gardens, the rolling farmlands or the courtyard with its bronze chiming fountain, a recent acquisition from a park in Paris.

Phryne was in her suite which consisted of a bedroom, dressing room and bathroom with a private terrace. She sat in the window seat and hugged her knees. Beside her was a small bundle of letters and a telegram, a ribbon loose beside them. She looked out at the gardens, a magnificent vista of lawns designed as a series of gentle terraces culminating in the rose parterre to her left and the wisteria arbour to the other extreme.  Carefully designed waterfalls, pergolas and stone walks created a series of garden rooms that controlled the eye line as far as the forest of cypresses and pines. Oaks, elms, giant weeping beeches, maples and rhododendrons that punctuated the lawns were shrouded in mist that seemed to weigh on every branch.  

The mists seemed to become heavier as light then steady rain set in and her finger followed the race of the drops as they ran down the window. A tear impersonated the rain drop down her cheek, followed by another and another before she had realised what was happening.  She brushed them away angrily, got up and sniffed.  She paced up and down and went to the diary she kept on her dressing table, the diary that determined the commitment to her side of the bargain.  She casually crossed off the evening before’s soiree and flipped over the next few pages, then a few more.  She tapped deliberately with her pen on a final page, took out documents and papers and maps from one of the drawers and sat down, pored over them, circled numbers and passages of text, then left the room with some determination.

She knocked at the door of the library and went in.  Lord Danby sat at his desk and looked up in some surprise then smiled. “What is it my dear?  Lovely party last night.  You do arrange everything so well.”  He looked distracted as if he wanted to return to his papers.

“We have the dinner for the Royal Society on Saturday then the cocktail party for the engineers the following Friday and the dinner party with the Dalrymples and Rawsons a few nights later.”

“Yes? Is there a problem with any of these?”  He put his pen down and took off his glasses.

“No, not at all.  Then there’s a break of several weeks as you are going to the continent and some smaller dinners  after you return.”  She paused and he nodded. “I’d like to go back to Melbourne, for a visit.  I need to go and see Aunt Prudence and some close friends, and see to some household matters.  The diary is fairly free for a couple of months, or at least it could be rearranged.  And I’m sure St John and Isobel could assist if necessary. And as you are only going to the continent for business, you don’t need me to accompany you there.”

“That’s true, I could easily go without you.  Harrison will be with me and the business partners. But I thought you might like to come.”

“Normally, yes, I’d love to.  But I feel I need to go, urgently.  Everything happened so fast between us, I never had a chance to tell anyone properly or explain.  Apart from father and mother.”

“Is there anything more the matter?  Are you regretting it all?”

“Of course not.  It’s just I feel very strongly I must go to sort out some things.  And I’ll take Jane.  It’s time she went home.”

“How long would you be away? You will come back won’t you?”

“Perhaps three months with travel.  We could go with you as far as Paris, then continue on by train to Constantinople, then steamer, and possibly plane from Singapore. That would be the quickest. Something similar coming back.”  She held out the documents she had used to plot her route.

He looked pensively at the travel route. “Yes, if that’s what you want.  Yes, I think you should.  But take one of the servants with you as well.  I don’t like the thought of your being on your own, just you and Jane.  That would leave you vulnerable in some of those places.”

“I’ll take Lundy as far as Constantinople, then we will be fine on our own after that as we’ll be on a liner.”

 “So you have thought about this and have a plan already in place? What can I say?  And I suppose we should probably plan for you to go every year don’t you think, especially if Jane is to stay in Melbourne?  It could coincide with my summer holidays perhaps in the future. But yes, if it is to be done now, then ‘twere well it were done quickly.”

She smiled at him indulgently, her smile and demeanour flavoured by the success of her plan so effortlessly.

 “I will miss you, you know Phryne.”

She went round to his side of the desk and kissed the top of his head, “Thank you.  I’ll see you at dinner.”

He looked at her keenly, “Is there someone…  someone special… you need to see?”

“Yes.”  


	14. Chapter 14

DI Robinson looked at his watch then nervously smoothed his eyebrows.  He got up with some determination, snatched his coat and hat from the stand in the office and headed outside into the early evening air.  He threw his coat into the car and then locked the car door. He took off his suit jacket and put it over his arm and carried his hat, as the evening was holding the day’s heat.  He had decided to walk into the city.  It would do him good to breathe in the air and clear his head.

A small crowd was milling outside The Athenaeum as some lingered on the footpath and others were heading for the entrance.  Louise Walsted saw him coming long before he saw her standing amongst the patrons and her heart missed a beat.  She walked up to him once he had caught her eye and they formally shook hands.

“I am so pleased you came Detective Robinson.  I do hope it will be worth your while,” she smiled.

“Well it won’t be any fault of yours if it isn’t Miss Walsted. It was a pleasant evening for a walk and I know of Piggott’s investigations and will be interested in what he has to say.  Shall we go in?”

She was disappointed that he had walked.  It meant he would not offer her a ride home, but that he had come after such an apathetic response to her invitation cheered her enormously.  They walked inside and she offered to show him the library and reading room before heading for the lecture room.

A central wooden desk dominated the library, with floor to ceiling dark timber shelves around the outer walls, and open shelves arranged to provide a means of displaying new books, newspapers and magazines to enable members to realise the very many advantages the library provided. Gold-lettered signage orientated the patrons to the various collections.  They walked through to the Reading Room made comfortable with reading tables, leather armchairs and fireplaces.

“I can see why you would prefer working here than in the hospital kitchen at home in Mansfield,” commented Jack.

“Better than anywhere else in the world I would imagine.  I can’t believe my good fortune.  I thank you and your colleague Miss Fisher every day.  I hope you have conveyed my appreciation to her.”

A shadow, barely perceptible, seemed to cross his face, “Yes, yes I have.  I believe she knows Mr De Pledge, the librarian.”

They made their way to the small auditorium where the talk was to be held.  Detective Inspector Piggott was already at the front, talking to the Club’s secretary who was to present the guest lecturer.  The senior policeman looked authoritative, dragging on a large cigar, a thumb tucked into the pocket of his waistcoat.

“Will you introduce yourself to him?” asked Louise Walsted.

“No, perhaps afterwards.  Let’s wait and see what we think of the talk, shall we?”  He indicated the row where they should sit, not too close to the front and to one side. She rather liked the fact that he had used  “we”. 

She found the talk fascinating and her occasional glances sidewards to her companion seemed to indicate that he was, at the very least, attentive, with the firm set of his jawline and the hollowness of his cheeks.  My goodness that profile could distract a girl if she hadn’t been so interested in the content of the lecture. Piggott was an engaging speaker and despite the forensic and scientific detail of his presentation, had the audience enthralled. He spoke of his own cases - one in particular, the 'Licola tragedy', where a woman was found shot dead on her veranda and her husband was suspected of her murder.  But Piggott's belief was that it was suicide, that she had killed herself and was depressed about the loss of an infant child some six to eight weeks earlier. The senior detective outlined his investigation of what was the first example of blood-spatter interpretation in Australian forensic history. His explanation of the scene - where the blood landed, and where the body was in relation to where the shotgun was found, put those factors together with mathematical precision. He had photographs to illustrate the findings, shown on a large screen behind him.  He went on to say how this new technique ensured that a man was not wrongfully convicted. He was able, in a sense, to save that person from the gallows because if that evidence hadn’t been available then that suspicion could have been carried forward into a capital case.  It was an extraordinary step that he took at the time in introducing blood-spatter interpretation into the courtroom.

He went on to talk about what he had learned in his tour of both America and Britain, learning the techniques of his counterparts in investigative bureaus in those countries before concluding with some remarks about these new methods and procedures bringing together the agencies of science, policing and the law for the benefit of justice.

He received an enthusiastic response from the audience and a small contingent gathered to ask questions of him afterwards. 

Jack turned to his companion, “Thank you for letting me know about this. I enjoyed it.  Did you?”

“Yes I did, very much. Maybe I should study forensic science rather than librarianship!”

Jack looked rather alarmed.  “But as a librarian you will have access to any subject you wish.  That notion of a dream job didn’t last very long if you can change your mind about a career every time you come to a talk!”

“I think I am more overwhelmed with all the possibilities that I never dreamed of just a few months ago and now I seem to have a whole new world opened up to me.  Don’t think I’m ungrateful for the work in the library.  I still can’t quite believe it.  I am ever so appreciative of what you have done for me.”

 “Not at all. Now I would rather not stay and meet the great man – he has an adoring crowd that will keep him busy for a while.  I’ll walk you to the tram.  My car is back at the station, otherwise I’d offer to drive you home.”

Louise Walsted’s internal monologue went further, “I know your car is at the police station and that you can’t drive me home, that’s exactly what I thought the moment you arrived.  Didn’t you think about that when you left your car there?”  But she responded out loud, “Oh don’t worry at all.  It is still light and I am used to going home quite safely at all hours of the evening.  Please, I will be fine.”

“Nonetheless, you were kind enough to invite me, let me walk you part of the way.”

They walked along Collins Street towards the tram stop, past a lively coffee palace and Jack paused, “Shall we go in?”

“Yes, why not?’ she gave him a distinctly coy look.


	15. Chapter 15

Lady Danby responded as Phryne Fisher always did in the circumstances - she was invigorated by the thought of her trip and set about the preparations straight away.  They would take the Orient Express stopping in Paris to spend some time with her husband and his business associates, where they would be dealing with a difficult legal matter that had been plaguing his company for many months.  A railway accident where a steam train had been derailed had caused death and injury to a number of people in northern France the previous year.  His company which manufactured the steel for the lines had been implicated in the accident with allegations of flaws in the girders.  Lord Danby was confident they would be absolved with counter allegations of reckless speed being the cause. The matter took him to Paris on regular occasions to consult with lawyers and to be present at hearings.

In Paris Phryne and Jane were to take the Simplon Orient Express on to Constantinople, a journey of just three nights. From there she would book their passage on a liner that would travel via the Suez Canal to Singapore, and she would then set about looking for a means to fly them home. 

She looked at a calendar on her desk, with their social obligations for the next couple of weeks and the best of connections on their journey, she calculated she could be enjoying one of Mr B’s cocktails in under six weeks. She very deliberately crossed off that day on the calendar as an indication that the countdown had begun.

She had decided not to forewarn anyone of her arrival, it was to be a complete surprise, deciding instead to alert them to Jane’s, which would mask her own.  That way she could have Bert and Cec meet them at the airfield and only then would her presence be known. She didn’t want anyone to know, especially not Jack.  She would have to plan things very carefully to avoid detection.

Jane was more excited than she imagined, with the thought of aeroplane travel to round off the trip, rather than the slow passage of a steam ship as much part of her pleasure as anything else.  Jane’s enthusiasm too, allowed Phryne to hide her own – she could be happy for her rather than with her.  She could not show publicly how much she wanted to leave, how depressed she was with the circumstances to which she was now committed, how much she wanted to be with those she loved, how earnestly she wanted to return to the place and the people who had been home and family for such a short time yet had become so much a part of her.

And Jack.  Especially Jack. She could not stop thinking of him. How they had parted, with such promise. Her mind again and again recalled the image of his car driving up to her plane on the airfield, she recalled running towards him as he ran to her, her teasing him, then his pulling her towards him, the hunger of the kiss.  She had imagined for so long what it would be like to kiss him.  There was nothing of his caution, his restraint, his conservatism in those few short moments.  He wanted her and she wanted him. She could still feel his hand against her hair holding her face to his, her hand to his waist, his lips on hers, the firmness and passion of his embrace. How much more of his passion she would now like to experience. Of all the men she had known, who’d amused her, who’d given her pleasure, none had made her feel anything more than satisfaction. Her feelings for Jack had crept up on her so slowly, so imperceptibly she scarcely knew when or how it had happened. But it had.  She loved him and could not bear the thought of not seeing him, not being with him. 

She had been sure he would follow her, despite knowing his natural wariness, his reaction, his guardedness.  But as the months of economic turmoil had lingered, and his prospects of work dwindled, she had known deep down that he would not come after all. Would she still have married Lord Alexander Danby had Jack been in London with her?  Probably.  How much more hurt would he have been with her actions.  In hindsight she was relieved that he hadn’t come after her.  And she had thought her marriage could be organised to suit herself, that her freedom and independence would be assured, that somehow she could keep everything the same. But it wasn’t, not at all. 

She knew how much Jack had been affected by her letter.  It was good of Mac to take him to dinner and write to her of their evening.  So now, just a few months into her arrangement, she desperately wanted to explain to him, to tell him everything, to make him understand.  She wasn’t quite sure what the return visit would solve apart from that but she knew she had to see him.

 


	16. Chapter 16

Jack found himself vaguely looking forward to the final in the series of lectures at The Athenaeum by Ms A'Beckett from the University of Melbourne on the expedition Napoleon had commissioned artist Baudin and a team of scientists to take to Australia.  He wasn't quite sure whether it was the lecture itself or the arrangement to meet Miss Walsted that made the thought of the evening a pleasant one.  He certainly had made attempts to ease himself out of the gloom that had descended on everyone and everything in his aura since he had received Phryne's letter.  He still shuddered every time he thought of it, which was often.  But he had determined to rise above self-pity and endeavour to involve himself in something sembling life.

“The question is”, began Miss A’Beckett, "if Napoleon hadn't lost at Waterloo, would he have ended up colonising Australia?"

"His ships were called the  _Geographie_  and the  _Naturaliste_ , not the _Invader_ and the _Conqueror_ ; it was a voyage of discovery and learning of flora and fauna, and of courteous communication with the native peoples. Baudin was given special instructions by France's Society of Mankind to document the native population of Australia. He had been briefed on how to interact respectfully with the native people," continued Ms A’Beckett, adding that the exchanges with the Aborigines were "quite friendly" describing an interaction with a Tasmanian tribe in which Baudin's people stripped down and smeared charcoal on their bodies, so as to appear more familiar to the Aborigines.

"In addition to Aboriginal artefacts such as shields and spears, Baudin's voyage returned with 200 live plants for Josephine's garden at the Château de Malmaison, twelve kilometres from Paris.   
  
"That they kept alive 200 plants on a voyage that was over six months, on a ship going through all different climes, is incredible," Miss A’Beckett told the audience. Perhaps more incredible was the successful transport of Australian animals. "It was like Josephine's ark. Baudin was instructed to bring back one of everything, the ship's crew reportedly dispossessing officers of their cabins, filling them with emus, kangaroos and black swans.

“The animals were fed bread soaked in wine for the entirety of the return voyage. It's remarkable that they survived at all," Miss A’Beckett remarked. "And, incredibly, these creatures outlived Napoleon and Josephine.

“Baudin's expedition brought two black swans to Malmaison for Josephine, a male and a female. Of all the animals Josephine had, the black swans were the rarest - rich people would come to Malmaison to say hello to Josephine and see her black swans. When the swans reproduced, Josephine became the first person in history to breed black swans in captivity.

“The fascination with Australia extended beyond Napoleon and Josephine, to the public of France. In the early 1800s, Australia was the most exotic, exciting and unexplored place on the planet, so it wasn't surprising that Napoleon and Josephine, wanting to be world leaders and trendsetters, would have wanted to know the most about Australia."

Jack and Louise Walsted walked out of the auditorium, Jack holding his hat and coat, the young woman confidently walking beside him.  The faintest of cool breezes brought the smell of rain to the heavy humidity of the evening air.

“I have my car as it looked like rain.  Will you let me drive you home?”

“Only if you come in for some supper.  Aunt would like to say hello too I am sure.”

“Very well, thank you.” 

Once in the car Louise kept up a running commentary on the evening’s lecture.  She was becoming used to his silences, “I had no idea that Josephine had such an interest in Australia.  And I can’t believe she kept all those plants and animals at Malmaison.  Did you know that?”

“No, I didn't.”

“Fascinating.  Did you ever visit Malmaison when you were on leave during the war?”

“No, I hadn't actually heard of Malmaison then.  I’d quite like to go now. Er…. if I ever went back and that’s unlikely.  I didn’t realise it was so close to Paris.”  He frowned.  The last time he had thought of going to Paris was in a letter to Phryne proposing that they go there together for a romantic interlude.  He let out an unconscious sigh.

“Is everything all right?  You must be very tired and a Tuesday night, so early in the week.  I’m not starting until late tomorrow, so I can sleep in.  Although I always help Aunt to get up and about in the mornings.”

He didn't elaborate on his musings and hadn't realised he had shown his feelings, “Is she any better?”

“You’ll see. Slowly, slowly she seems to be improving, although we doubt she will work again.  Not in the factory again at least.  But she may be able to work from home.  She is a very good seamstress.”

They sat around the kitchen table, eating jam and bread cut in thick slices from a square loaf, and drinking tea.  Barry was home from the docks and Miss Martin was delighted to see the detective who had shown such concern about her and her family.

“It is very good of you to entertain my niece Inspector.  She was always such a swot at school.  She loves all that kind of thing.  Always a nose in a book.  And that job you arranged – so kind of you.  We are all so indebted.”

“Well actually Miss Martin, your niece arranged the entertainment herself and told me of it, and it was my friend … a colleague of mine who arranged for her apprenticeship at the library.  I can’t claim any credit at all.”

“And driving her home too!” Miss Martin was not to be denied her appreciation and nodded at him and at her niece.

“Not at all.  But I must go.  I have an early start tomorrow.  Thank you for supper, Miss Walsted and it is good to see you looking a little better Miss Martin.  Barry.”   He walked to the door, and Louise Walsted followed him, ensuring she opened it for him.

“Thank you so much for coming again tonight and driving me home.  I am glad you are enjoying these events at the Club.  Shall I let you know of anything else coming up?”  Her plan of course was the grand dénouement, the evening to end all evenings, the finale – the concert.

“Yes – although always depending upon commitments and emergencies at work.”

She nodded, looked up at him and smiled.  He looked down at her directly and saw something in her look that made him instantly apprehensive, a look of infatuation, longing even, and he felt distinctly uncomfortable. Instead of shaking hands, as he normally would he held his hat with both hands, tilted his head slightly and said good night.

“This is going too far,” he thought to himself as he got into the car.  “It has to stop.”

Louise Walsted walked back to the kitchen and cleared the table. She knew she would have to count off the days before she could contrive to see him again, she would have to find an excuse to call in at the station.  She was feeling very content. She saw the way he had looked at her, there was an expression in his eyes she hadn't seen before, a certain focus, and despite having no experience with the opposite sex, she recognised that things were moving in exactly the way she wished.  She shut her own eyes tight - he liked her! She did the dishes as quickly as she could so she could get her aunt to bed and spend the evening in very pleasant contemplation on her own. All she had to do now was invite him to the Nellie Melba concert that was to be performed the very next month.  And she couldn't wait tell her friend Mrs Collins when they met next for afternoon tea.

 


	17. Chapter 17

Phryne and Jane were in the quiet of Phryne’s rooms.  They talked excitedly of what they would do on their days in Paris, then took out the maps and looked at the route the blue and gold carriages of the Orient Express would take from there - Dijon, Lausanne, Milan, Venice, Trieste, Zagreb, Belgrade, Sofia, Kapikule on the Turkish/Bulgarian border then their destination, Sirkeci station in Constantinople where they would stay at the Pera Palas Hotel, established by the Wagons-Lits Company specifically to cater for Orient Express clientèle.

Phryne paused in their deliberations, “Where would you like to live Jane?  Now that school is finished.  Do you like it here or would you prefer to be based in Melbourne?  Would you like to stay in Melbourne a bit longer?  Have you thought about that?”

“I don’t know.  I would really like to live with you - you are my adopted mother after all - and it is very beautiful here and the continent is wonderfully close.  But I feel I belong in St Kilda and I don’t even really know why.”

“Because it’s your home, Australia is more your home than England”, she mused. “You could apply for university you know.”

 “And if I were to go to university, I would like to go to Melbourne and read History. But I would visit you here.  Dot and Mr Butler would look after me wouldn't they?”

“Yes, yes they would, just like they looked after me….,” her voiced trailed away.

“Do you miss them?”

“I do.  I miss them very much.”

“Lundy is hardly a replacement for Dot.  She is so severe! ... Miss Fisher,” she couldn't bring herself to call her by her new title, “why did you marry him? Do you love him very much? I know he is nice and kind, and very rich and he likes us and looks after us.”

“He is all those things I suppose.  He made it possible for my mother and father to live extremely comfortably for the rest of their lives, without any help from me.  And he doesn't mind that I go back to Melbourne, and doesn't make many demands.”

“But you’re not saying you love him very much.”

“No, I didn't say that,” she hugged her knees and looked straight at Jane.

"It’s just not you any of this.  Not the Miss Fisher who rescued me, and Dot, and stood up for people like us, and solved crimes with Inspector Robinson.”

At the mention of his name Phryne shifted uncomfortably and averted her gaze. 

“Miss Fisher? What’s the matter? What is it?”

Phryne leaned back,

_“Let us go then, you and I,_

_When the evening is spread out against the sky_

_Like a patient etherized upon a table;_

_Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,_

_The muttering retreats_

_Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels_

_And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:_

_Streets that follow like a tedious argument_

_Of insidious intent_

_To lead you to an overwhelming question ..._

_Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”_

_Let us go and make our visit.” (3)_

* * *

 

 

Phryne had her own wood-panelled sleeping compartment on the train while Jane shared with the severe Lundy, but transferred to Miss Fisher’s during the day when it was converted into a compact carpeted sitting room with a sofa and small table.

They spoke little, Jane’s head almost permanently in her books unless there was particular scenery to be observed as they streamed past fields and picturesque villages, ancient chateaux, church steeples, rivers and marshes, mountains and valleys.  Phryne had a book too, but she rarely turned a page, her gaze semi-permanently out of the window or looking at her own reflection in it – not because she was obsessed with self but it made her focus her thoughts. 

Eventually the long, black locomotive pulled the gleaming carriages into Sirkeci station.  Steam rushed everywhere as on the platform people stumbled and tumbled about as porters wheeled their trolleys and jostled for space.  Lundy secured the services of one them and they were steered confidently towards desks where passports and tickets were checked for the ocean liner the next day before being carefully poured into a waiting car for the short ride to the hotel.

The Pera Palas was an elegant blend of Neo-classical, Art Nouveau and Oriental styles and Jane was entranced from the moment they checked in.

“We shall have tea as soon as we have changed.  Lundy will need refreshment before she heads back on the train this evening and I want you to experience the English tea ritual here.”

Which they did: white marble steps from the foyer lead to the Kubbeli Saloon, a soaring room at the heart of the hotel, with polished parquet floor, columns of marble, and ceiling domes pierced with discs of turquoise glass. Waitresses in trim beige dresses and white aprons emerged from the Patisserie de Pera, bearing platters filled with triangles of striped cake, puffs of pastry smothered in chocolate, tiny tarts and rather large scones. All this to the accompaniment of a grand piano. 

The hotel was luxury itself after the rather cramped, albeit comparatively lavish, conditions on the train and they determined to enjoy every minute of their overnight stay before embarking upon stage two of their trip  - the liner that was to take them to Singapore over the next fortnight.

Lord Danby had spared no expense in securing their passage – the ship was the latest in the P&O fleet: large, comfortable cabins, one each, and amenities such as ballrooms with vast dance-floors where the ship’s orchestra played day and evening, piano bars, restaurants, cafes, libraries, writing-rooms, and even radio-telegraphic services.

Phryne telegraphed Lord Danby to let him know of their progress and to wish him well in the legal dealings that were continuing in Paris.  She then made Jane telegraph Mr Butler with her own progress and to ensure that Bert and Cec would be organised to meet her in a few weeks’ time.

They went back to their cabins to change for dinner, Jane helping Phryne choose an appropriate outfit. They decided upon a deep purple and emerald velvet patterned tabard over a satin slip of the same purple, a deep brown fur stole around her shoulders and emeralds around her neck.  She pinned a sparkling slide in her hair and ensured her lips were highlighted in her favourite ruby red. If Phryne was anxious to arrive at their next destination, at least her apprehension was to be tempered by being able to do as she pleased in comfort until then.  Her name and connections accorded her status and deference, her style and glamour only adding to her billing as the number one guest on the ship, her table at dinner as sought after had she been royalty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (3) From The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock


	18. Chapter 18

If Louise Walsted had wanted an excuse to call in at City South Police Station prior to the concert, sooner rather than later, one presented itself that was as unexpected as it was unpleasant. It was difficult to hide her distress as she knocked on the door of his office one afternoon after work.

“Miss Walsted, good evening,” Jack spoke quite brightly, “What brings you here?  Are you well?  And your Aunt?”

“I am very well thank you.  But unfortunately Aunt is not and that’s why I’m here actually.”

“Oh?”

“Aunt is not making any real progress in her recovery, not enough to go back to work, so things have taken a turn.  She can no longer keep up on the rent on the house and must terminate the lease at the end of the month.  Barry and I have helped her out of course with us both working, but it isn’t enough.  She is to come and live with us in Mansfield and I am to go with her.  I must leave too.  My parents will drive up in the truck and help pack up, then take us back.”  The young girl could not contain her bitterness and Jack felt genuinely sorry for her.

“You have no other options for a place to stay?”

She shook her head, “My mother will not hear of anything else.  She won’t allow me to find a room.  If I am not staying with Aunt, I must go home.”

“What about Barry?  Where will he go?”

“He is in a better position.  He has secured a place at one of the hostels near the wharves – a lot of the dock workers have digs there.  He will be alright.”

“And your work?”

“That’s the worst of it.  I have to give it up.  I let Mr De Pledge know today.  He was very kind and will write me a reference.”

“So you might find similar work in Mansfield then?  In the library there?”

“I can only hope, otherwise it’s back to the hospital kitchen.”

“I’m sure your experience will count for you Miss Walsted.  You wouldn’t have dreamed of being in this position a few months ago, now look at the skills you’ve learned.  I am sure you’ll find something better in time.”

This was not the way she had imagined the conversation going.  She had hoped he would come up with some kind of solution, that he would have some connection with someone, a situation that would suit her and satisfy her parents.  She intended to talk it over with Mrs Collins too when she visited her the next afternoon.  They had been her saviours in the past, surely now too they could think of something. 

And secretly, somewhere in the depths of her grim hope was a little, tiny niggling fantasy, that he may be so desperate not to lose her, that he would make her an offer that would please everyone and make her the happiest woman alive.  The concert may well provide the perfect fillip for this - if he hadn’t quite come to grips with the direness of the situation now, then the concert would provide the time, the means and the impetus for it to come about.

“Um I was wondering, I wanted to, before I left, it’s just to say thank you for all you have done for me and my family, whether you would like to come to a concert.”

Jack frowned, “What kind of concert, when?”  He delayed, wondering how to stall and refuse as gently as possible, given the theme of the visit.

“At The Athenaeum of course.  It is to be just before I leave.  Dame Nellie Melba is to give a final appearance there and sing some of her best-known arias.”

“… um… hasn't she given her farewell concerts already?”

“Yes it sounds silly doesn’t it to present yet more farewell concerts but I understand it has been a long-standing booked event for the Club as she’s sung there several times before.  You like opera don’t you?  She’s to sing Mimi’s arias from La Bohème, Desdemona’s from Otello and others.”

“These tickets are likely to cost a lot of money.  I couldn’t possibly accept such an invitation from you.  It is very kind of you but there is no need to thank me in such a way.  You have thanked me enough already.”

She persisted, “It is to be one of her "Concerts for the People" with low ticket prices given the Club’s status as a workman’s society.  And you mustn't consider it a burden if I wish to give it, it would be a gift.”

Jack had heard enough and knew he needed to be clear, and firm, “Miss Walsted, that is all the more reason I cannot accept such a substantial gift from you.  It would not be right, it would be improper.”

“Why?” she looked at him wide-eyed with tears brimming beneath her lashes.

“Perhaps you don’t see it as I do, as I must.  That’s completely understandable on your part. But for me to accept such an invitation, for me to accompany you would suggest a… a familiarity between us, more than an acquaintance or a passing interest in the same things.  Going to lectures on topics of mutual curiosity is not the same as going to a ticketed evening concert.  I am quite sure your parents would not approve and I… I would simply, … it would put us both… it would be inappropriate on both our parts.  That does, of course, in no way diminish the thoughtfulness and generosity of its intent.”

“Very well. If that’s how you think it would look.”

“I don’t think, I know.” He consulted his watch. “Would you like some tea?  Collins and I are due for some.”

“No thank you.  I must be on my way.”

“Make sure you come and say goodbye to us before you leave won’t you?”

She took the longest possible route home, walking slowly and catching a tram that required her to change mid-journey.  How could everything have deteriorated so quickly?  It was as if the giant hand of fate had dealt a death blow on her plans.  No matter which way she looked at it, prospects were black.  Dejection, abandon, pain, loss had overtaken every possible feeling of promise from just a short time ago.  No wonder some people disliked F Scott Fitzgerald and Hemmingway, they wrote of life, not fiction.


	19. Chapter 19

Bert’s cigarette hung dangerously close to the tip of his lip and Dot looked at it constantly to catch it should it threaten her pristine tabletop.

“What time exactly will young Jane be arriving did you say?”

“We don’t know exactly.  She will telegraph us from Darwin and then Adelaide.  But we think it will be Thursday morning some time.  It will be so nice to have her home.  I have everything ready and Mr Butler and I are going to cook a very special dinner for her.”

“Oh yeah?  Who’s invited?”

“You and Cec can come if you like but I expect clean shoes and a change of shirt Albert Johnson.”

“Aren’t you the mistress of the house then?”

“Well yes I am actually until Miss Fisher comes back, I mean Lady Danby.”

“And when’s that?  Not likely is it?  And what will become of this place?”

“I don’t know and I wish I did.  I miss her so much.”

“We all do Dotty.  Now how about a refill then before I get on my way?”

 

* * *

 

Phryne was even more delighted with Raffles on the way home than she had been on the way over.  They were so close to home, she could almost taste it and having Jane with her rather than having to keep a watchful eye on her father was a distinct bonus.  Jane loved the fact that she could shell and eat peanuts in the Long Bar while Miss Fisher had her Sling and, like everyone else, toss the shells on the floor.

“I still can’t believe you flew all the way over.  Will you fly me to England one day?”

“Of course,” said Phryne, “That would be fun!  Tomorrow’s plane is much more solid though, and faster being a commercial one… Oh Jane, we’re nearly there!”

From Singapore to Darwin, from Darwin to Adelaide, from Adelaide to Melbourne – just a few more days.

“Why did you want it to be such a secret?  That you’re coming home.”

“Oh I don’t know.  In case something went wrong and I couldn't get away.”

“But nothing has gone wrong, so why don’t we send a telegram to say you’re with me?”

“I’d just rather it be a surprise.  There’s Mac and Aunt P and my other friends.  I would have needed to let so many people know and I just thought I’d organise to meet everyone separately, starting with home.”

“And the Inspector?”

“Yes, and the Inspector.  Don’t eat any more peanuts; it will ruin your dinner.  Come along, I've booked a table in the Palm Court for 8.”

 

* * *

 

Bert and Cec arrived early at the commercial airfield, not wanting to have Jane wait alone.  They wandered up and down side by side looking at the aircraft in the hangars, those being prepared for take-off until they saw the one due in from Adelaide a spec in the distance at first then coming to the foreground and landing with rather a bumpy taxi onto the airstrip.

There were a small number of passengers assisted from the aeroplane down a ladder-like contraption from near the wings.  Jane, carrying a bag, looked around and waved as soon as she caught sight of them.  They were so focussed on seeing her and welcoming her that they failed to notice any of the other passengers.

As they loaded her trunk into the boot of the taxi, Jane delighted in saying, “We have to wait for Miss Fisher!”  Their reaction was exactly what she expected as their mouths hung open for several seconds before expressing surprise then delight.  The same reaction was to repeat itself several more times as they were welcomed in St Kilda to the effusive delight of Dot and the restrained pleasure of Mr Butler.

The next few hours were spent in wild questioning about England, about Abingdon Park, about Lord Danby, about the wedding, about the Baron and Lady Margaret, about the trip home and the purpose, length and nature of Phryne’s visit, about Dot and Hugh’s honeymoon and their married life.  Phryne answered those questions to her as positively as she could until she was exhausted by it.  

“I must have a bath and change.  Now Dot, I don’t want news of my return out and about yet.  You are under orders.  Tell no-one please, not just yet.  No telephone calls to City South.  Hugh can find out a little later on.”

She relaxed into her bath and thought carefully about how she might greet Jack.  She had no idea how he would react.  Would he be churlish, sullen, angry, or silent as a stone?  She didn’t know how she would react herself, what she should say, but see him she must.  She dressed carefully in a cream pants suit with a chiffon blouse in pale blues teamed with a pale blue hat, and applied her make-up carefully then went downstairs.

“Now Dot, ring the station and ascertain that Hugh and Inspector Robinson are there.  Time for some of your investigative talent to resurface.” 

She hung up the phone and nodded her head and beamed with pleasure at being her mistress’s assistant once again.

“Well done!  Now come along, you will need to distract your husband as I go and see Inspector Robinson.”

“Distract him Miss?”

“Have you lost your touch already?  That hasn't taken long.”

“What shall I do?” she asked as they pulled up outside the station.

“Get him to fix the buckle on your shoe so I can go past the desk.  How would that be?”

“Very well Miss.”  She adjusted her hat and went into the station and straight up to Hugh, leaving Phryne lurking outside, temporarily.

“Hello Dottie.  What’s up?”

She walked around the desk, “My shoe Hugh …” He obligingly squatted down at her feet.

Phryne took a deep breath and tiptoed past them and straight up to the door of his office.  She stopped momentarily then opened the door and walked in.

 


	20. Chapter 20

He looked up at the movement into the room and remained motionless at his desk at the sight of her.

“Phryne.”  His voice was husky, his intonation flat as he looked at her, awestruck at the sight.

“Hello Jack!” As much as she attempted to sound cheery she couldn’t control the emotion in her voice and it was shaking.  She looked at him as he stood up slowly from behind the desk.  She suddenly felt awkward, embarrassed and took off her hat and shook her hair and smoothed it down, needing to give herself something to do.

He walked around the desk and slowly over towards her. Then adrenalin took over and she leapt towards him and flung her arms around his neck,

“I’m so sorry.  I can explain,” she whispered desperately as seconds later his arms surrounded her and he pulled her into him, holding her head against his shoulder, his cheek against the top of her head.

“Sshh, not just yet, just wait.”  They stood gently rocking for seconds, then he gently pulled himself away from her.

“When did you arrive? What are you doing here? Who are you with? How…?  Sit down.  You have a lot to tell me.”  As he said this, his voice tightened, his jaw set and he sucked in his cheeks until the dimples appeared, his brow furrowed and his eyes dark.

“I know, I know.  I don’t know where to start.  But it will take some time. Can you come to dinner tonight?”

“No, tell me now.  Right now.”  He went over to the door of his office and locked it then sat on his desk and pulled up a chair for her.  He looked down at her, as beautiful, as elegant, as captivating as she had always been.  He couldn't decide whether he loved her or hated her.

“We flew in a few hours ago-“

“We, who’s we?”

“Jane and I.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes, just the two of us.  Jack, please let me explain slowly.”

“Go on, I’m not going anywhere.”

“When I arrived in England, my parents’ circumstances were dire.  As I suspected father hadn’t told me the truth of their financial situation.  They were in debt and couldn’t run the estate – a combination of incompetence, gambling and I suspect payments to Eugene Fisher. Father found a buyer for the estate - a vast sum, an agreed  £250,000 which he felt would pay off their debts and leave them enough to live on comfortably in Russell Square.  He had accepted a deposit initially and immediately spent it; he says it was to pay off Eugene Fisher although we have found no trace of the money.  The sale fell through as the buyer realised the estate had been over-priced to begin with.  Father was unable to return the deposit and the debts started spiralling out of control.  That’s when he came here last year.

“By the time I got to England they owed money everywhere, to the banks, to the buyer who had withdrawn from the purchase who was chasing his deposit through the courts, let alone some private borrowing institutions and businesses all over London and around the estate.  And all the time the estate bleeding money.

“With the economic crash in America, no bank was interested in refinancing their loans; in fact it was the opposite.  Everyone wanted their debts paid and there was no money to do it. I propped up their immediate demands with my own resources but I couldn’t possibly extend to the amount they needed.  The only option was a fire sale of the estate, to at least stem the debts that were being incurred there.

“No-one was interested in buying the estate at the onset of a world economic depression.  That’s when we met Alexander Danby, an industrialist and an earl, a very, very wealthy man.  He made his money in steel sold largely for railways in England, Ireland, Wales and on the continent.”

She looked at Jack who was looking earnestly at something on the floor.

“It was at a party at Claridges’ where I was staying,… bear with me Jack please.  His company was then and still is being pursued for a damages claim as a result of a tragic train accident in Northern France last year where people were killed and there were many injuries.  The story was constantly in the British and French press, where the claim was that the steel had faults and imperfections in the manufacturing process that had allowed warping of the rails that precipitated a derailment.  Alexander was confident that this was a trumped up story to cover for human error – not only speed but some signal changes and gauges that were incorrectly set, the cover up being at the highest levels of the SNCF who in turn had connections to the French government.  Alexander had found out about the cover up and was preparing a counter claim through his lawyers.

“Then Alexander came under enormous personal scrutiny.” 

Jack held up his hand in exasperation, “I hope this is leading somewhere Phryne as I am finding it hard to have any sympathy for a wealthy man with a legal matter that needed sorting.”

“Alexander has a secret Jack, a life he keeps out of the public eye, that he has done all his life, but that threatened to be exposed by unprofessional journalists with a view to shaming him and humiliating him and somehow tying this to his immorality in everything he does, his business, his position in society, the peerage, everything.”

“A secret?  What kind of secret?  You mean he is …?”

“Yes, the love that dare not speak its name.  The exposure would have ruined him and his partner.”

“I thought he had been married, that he was a widow.”

“He was, and I believe when she found out - Alexander is incredibly discreet - she was so ashamed by it that she simply faded away, no desire to go on living.  Alexander needed a wife Jack, to counter the discovery; I needed a purchaser for the estate.  A high profile wedding to a much younger woman to silence the press and allow him to get on with his life and pursue the court case through correct legal channels.”

“So when you said ‘I do’…?”

“I don’t, we don’t, that’s correct.  I have my life to lead as I wish, as long as I present myself as his dutiful wife at social occasions and events, particularly where there’s likely to be journalists and photographers and gossip columnists.  He is free to pursue his life with his lover of thirty years, Harrison Johnson, who works as his private secretary and companion.

“Alexander bought the estate from my parents and immediately returned it to them, debt free…. There you have it Jack, the long and short of it.  You know it but no-one else does, apart from Alexander and of course Harrison.”  She looked at him, “Say something.”

 


	21. Chapter 21

 

“A marriage is still a marriage, even if two people lead separate lives.”

“You’re speaking about yourself, not me.  And how accurate was it for you anyway?  One piece of parchment replaced another – did that make any difference?  Surely it didn't change anything.”

“It did – it was legal.  And there was a sense of an ending.”  He sounded indignant.  “Phryne, you’re married, you live in England, you have managed to manipulate your arrangements for huge financial gain, and then you ask me to comment - what do you want me to say?  Is there a particular reaction I’m supposed to have?  Tell me and I’ll see if I can fit my response to your script.”

“Don’t be like that.” She moved herself forward in her chair to be closer to him where he sat on the desk, but he leaned back at her movement. “I wanted you to understand.” 

“Well I don’t understand.  I understand little of what motivates you and what you think is important.  I thought I did but clearly I’ve been mistaken.  I thought you used your money and influence in the interests of social justice, in the advancement of those less well off than yourself, particularly young women, to counter inequality.  I can’t see that in what you’ve just told me.  We live in different worlds now -perhaps we belong in separate worlds. ”

Phryne was not used to being chastised and responded somewhat tersely, “It wasn’t just the money.  It was to keep my parents together.  I couldn’t bear to see their marriage fall apart, to see them destitute.  There may not have been huge closeness between us, certainly never between Father and me, more with Mother, but there was enormous emotional pressure for me to work things out for them. They needed me to help them as they certainly couldn’t help themselves. And I was becoming increasingly desperate. Yes, they are now more comfortable than they or I ever could have imagined, but I didn’t seek great fortune.  It all just happened and seemed to be so neat.”

“Yes it is neat.  Very.  So what are you doing here?”

“I needed to see people.  To see you especially.” She had crossed her legs and swung one to and fro in some anxiety, sensing that she was making little headway.

“Why didn't you at least write?”

“Because I couldn't.  I wanted to tell you to your face.  How could I write of such things after those letters we exchanged and then your telegram?”

Jack looked away.

“Jack?”  She waited until he looked back to her, “I loved getting your letters.  I have read them over and over again. They were love letters.”

“What would you have done if I _had_ followed you?  If I _had_ come after you as you asked me to do?”

“I don’t know.  How can I say?  It didn't happen.”

“Did you blame me for not coming?”

“No of course not.  I wanted you there, I missed you but I doubt it would have changed anything – not the stock market crash, not my parents’ failures, not the arrangements I had to make.”

“The arrangements… you seem to be able to categorise everything so objectively, and you now ask me somehow to forget it all happened and pretend everything is where we left off.”

“Well you've hardly been idle yourself,” she retorted.

“What do you mean?”

“Miss Walsted I gather you've taken her under your wing in more ways than one!”

“What on earth are you talking about?  What are you suggesting?  Who told you this?”

“Dot!  Miss Walsted confided in her.”

“Confided what?”

“That you are stepping out together.”

“That we went to some lectures on forensic science and horticulture at The Athenaeum.”

“Are you in love with her?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, and how can you ask such a thing?”

“Well are you?”

“She’s half my age.”

“Jack, tell me, are you in love with her?”

He looked at her askance.  Could it be that she was jealous of Louise Walsted of all people, that this determinedly independent woman, this free spirit, was jealous that he might want to settle down with someone other than herself. A mischievous thought came to him, “You make it sound like an allegation rather than a question! She is clever, very pretty and good company.  And you know how much I find that combination irresistible.”

“So I’ll take that as a yes, you are in love with her!”

Phryne sensed that Jack was avoiding answering her question and felt too that she was at a disadvantage physically in continuing the conversation - on a chair while he was above her, sitting on his desk.  She slowly got up out of the chair so she was standing up close to the desk, so close that he couldn't get off it without her needing to move, so close that she stood right up to him, so close that she could touch the wool of his suit as she responded,

“Dot told me that Miss Walsted had to leave the city and go back to the country with her parents, unless you made her an offer which she fully expects you to make.  So you are to be married to her.  I find this hard to believe.”    He looked steadily at her, her eyes lowered, refusing to make contact with his.

The faintest of smiles hung around his lips.  “Do you find it so unbelievable that someone might want to marry me?”

And of course she didn't find it the least implausible that a pretty young girl would want to marry him or that he would not want the comforts and pleasures of an intelligent wife.  But that could not possibly be, she wouldn't have it.  “That’s not what I meant, at all.”

Jack continued to taunt and tease, “So I am not married but you consider that I am, and you are married and I am to consider that you are not?”

“But I'm not, not really, it doesn't count. I'm sure there’s a legal argument about non-consummation.”

“Well that would be a first for you.”  He gave a polite smirk and she merely responded with an arch look.

“I'm not in love with Alexander and never will be, so that doesn't count either.”

“And living on the other side of the world?  How are you going to make that not count?”

“If you are to be married I will go back there and stay forever.”

“And you accused me once of recourse to the dramatic when I dared to question your taste in men.  Do you now presume that I will ignore your own talent in that direction?”

“ _And how should I presume_?”  Phryne quoted from Prufrock and Jack immediately took up the next verses:

  
“ _And I have known the arms already, known them all-_

_Arms that are braceleted and white and bare_

_(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)_

_Is it perfume from a dress_

_That makes me so digress?_ ”

 

She listened, lulled by the deep timbre of his voice, the modulated tone, “So you know it by heart too, Prufrock?”

“Yes.”

 She paused before continuing, "So when are you to marry her?”  She moved in closer to him, “This young librarian who is pretty and clever and no more than a child.” She ran her fingers along his jacket beneath the lapel, pressing the fabric just firmly enough for him to feel the impression of her hand.

“I have not made her an offer, we are not to be married, I am not in love with her.” He was incapable of rejecting her.  He reached his own hand up to where she had placed hers and held it fast, “So where do we go from here Phryne?”

“Couldn't you come to dinner tonight?  There’s been a party arranged for Jane and you could come to dinner first, with Mac - another of your dates.”

“My question was going beyond dinner.”

“Was it indeed? Well I couldn't say no to that.”

“You know very well what I meant.  How can you expect me to simply make myself available to you when it suits, then bottle up my affections, lock them away when you leave again, and bring them out on command when you return at some unspecified time?”

“We have to find a way…  We love each other don’t we?”

Jack simply looked at her and pulled her closer to him. His eyes searching every inch of her face but not uttering a word.

So she persisted, “Don’t we?  I love you, and you love me don’t you… Jack?”

Jack brought her hand that he was still holding to his lips, “I shall look forward to dinner this evening, Lady Danby, and the party afterwards.”

 


	22. Chapter 22

Jack arrived for dinner bringing with him a bottle of wine and a bunch of flowers from his garden.  He immediately felt at home as he was ushered into the parlour by Mr Butler, and he thought how quickly times had turned.  Not long ago he had felt that never again would he have had access to the St Kilda home and had felt a nostalgic bitterness that Hugh was living there with Mrs Collins.  He was secretly pleased that Hugh was on a late shift and wouldn't be back until later in the evening so that he could become reacquainted with the home and its mistress without a subordinate’s scrutiny, and indeed he trusted Collins to man the station’s desk more efficiently and effectively than most of the City South staff.

Phryne looked fresh and elegant, not like someone who had flown in that morning from a lengthy trip and she kissed him on the cheek as he entered the room.  Aunt Pru was sitting comfortably in a chair and gave Jack a distinctly old-fashioned look, then a cursory nod followed by “Inspector, good evening. What brings you here?”

“I invited him Aunt Pru,” Phryne chipped in immediately.

“Mrs Stanley, good evening.”

“I suppose you’ve come to congratulate my niece on her very suitable marriage?”

“Something like that Mrs Stanley.”  He smiled politely then looked over at Phryne who had an expression of bemused annoyance at her aunt’s greeting.

The awkwardness of this opening was fortuitously interrupted with the arrival of Dr Mac and Jack was able to turn conversation to less irritable matters, not that Dr Mac was one to let Jack off too lightly and remarked how much better he looked than on the previous occasion they had met and that something must be doing him good.

They joined Dot and Jane a short time later at the dinner table, Jack positioned at the opposite end of the table to Phryne who sat at its head.  He noted the flowers from his garden arranged in small vases down the length of the setting. When the young women’s effusive discussions of Mrs Collins honeymoon and Jane’s Christmas in London moved to Lord Danby’s estate, it was much easier for Jack to sit back and listen, with Phryne only adding comment and asides to the enthusiasm of the commentaries.  Jane spoke of the beauty of the estate and the kindness of Lord Danby and all the staff, of the pleasure she had found in the beautiful grounds, the fun they had had in London.  Mrs Collins spoke of the joy she’d had in prevented any fishing expeditions and the desire to return to Sorrento as a regular place of rest and harmony.

“So when do you go back Phryne?” interrupted Aunt Prudence, “You can’t be leaving your husband alone and so soon!  It was good of him to allow you to come.  Was it to bring Jane home?”

Phryne gave a slightly exasperated sigh and responded, “Lord Danby is very keen for me to make regular trips home and he is doing very well without me.  He understands that I am not one to be tied down to such formalities.  In fact he is taking a holiday in the south of France, following his business trip to Paris.  He has been dealing with quite a stressful series of meetings and used the opportunity of my being away to take a break himself.  He goes regularly to Nice and the warmer climate will be good for him.  His secretary is with him and I am sure he doesn't miss me at all.  And as for Jane, she can speak for herself about what she wants to do.  Jane?”

“I do love Abingdon Park but I love it here too.  We thought, Miss Fisher and I thought, that I might go to university, and if that is to be, then I would rather be here, and go to Melbourne.”

“University?” Aunt P rather exclaimed in a tone expressing a combination of surprise and horror. 

“Yes.  Why not?”

“What an excellent idea Jane, “ chipped in Dr Mac, “Melbourne is my alma mater and I can highly recommend it.”

“What will you study Jane?” asked Jack.

“I would hope to read History, that’s what I like best.”

“And that would keep this home lively with Jane back.  I'm sure we would all like that,” added Dot.

The conversation drifted to how Phryne  filled her days in England on the estate – entertaining as well as becoming known for some sleuthing; then to her parents and their situations (which only gave rise to further huffing and sneering from Aunt Pru and many  sighs of “ poor, poor Margaret”); to Eugene Fisher  and the status of his appeal.

Jack tried to keep his mind on the conversation and on those sitting to his left and right, but from time to time he looked directly opposite to Phryne, and each time he did he found her eyes were already firmly fixed on him.

Dinner was brought to a close with the arrival of Bert and Cec, and Hugh from his shift, for the welcome home party and the dinner guests adjourned to the parlour where Mr Butler plied them with drinks, and Jack managed to find a doorway, as was his habit,  in which to lean and observe rather than participate in the festivities. He was also rather keen to extricate himself from Aunt Prudence’s glares which had tended to follow him throughout the meal.

He watched Phryne as she danced and made her way among the party invitees, paying attention to each of them, making them feel welcome or at home. “The Right Hon Lady Danby is in her element,” he thought, “No wonder Lord Danby chose her to be his surrogate partner.”

As the alcohol took its toll on most and the empty glasses and bottles were not replenished, Phryne began wishing the company good night.  She stood close to Jack and murmured that she’d like him to stay for a final drink, “just like old times”, and he was not unwilling to oblige, particularly as Mr and Mrs Collins had disappeared to their quarters.  There was an awkwardness he felt about Hugh’s presence in the house that niggled.

They sat companionably in arm chairs, neither willing to bring the conversation back to the question of how  they could possibly see themselves in any kind of partnership.

“You must be tired Phryne, you haven’t stopped since you arrived this morning.  I should be going.”

“Now that I am sitting down, I admit I am completely exhausted but please don’t go.  I’ve been looking forward to your staying. Stay a little while longer.”

A knock at the door provided a reprieve from advancing the burning question.

“Whoever can that be at this time of night?”

Mr Butler announced Mr Gabriel Street, an emissary from the Governor’s office, and  a slight young man in a suit with small round spectacles and a leather compendium under his arm came into the room, “I am so sorry to intrude at this hour but I have a rather urgent matter to discuss with Lady Danby. ”

“I am she.”

 “Lady Danby, I am so sorry to be here at this unconscionable hour but I have news of a very private nature and very urgent; quite disturbing.  Is there a family member who can be present?”  he looked at Jack quizzically.

“This is Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, you can have nothing to say to me that can’t be said in front of him.  What on earth is the matter?  Is there some trouble with Lord Danby?  Is it the newspapers?  Has something been printed in the newspapers?”

“Lady Danby, I think you should sit down.”

Phryne obligingly sat, and Jack went over and stood beside her.

“We have had confirmed this evening news of a most tragic nature.  I am very sorry to tell you that your husband, Lord Danby, died late last evening, London time, earlier today Melbourne time.  He died peacefully in his sleep Lady Danby.  Our office received word via the Governor General’s office  - Canberra received the news from London, and it is my sad commission to relay this to you.  You know you have our deepest condolences.”

The blood drained from Phryne’s face, “When was this?  Where was this?  Is he still in Nice?  What could have happened?  He is in perfectly good health.  Oh my goodness, was his secretary with him?  Was he with Mr Johnson?”

“I will endeavour to tell you what we know.”  He took telegraphs and notes from a small leather compendium. “Lord Danby was in Nice, staying at the Negresco_”

“Yes, they … he always stays there, go on.”

“He and his private secretary, Mr Johnson, had had a meal at the hotel and had gone up to the suite where they had a drink before each retired for the night.  Apparently Mr Johnson was concerned about Lord Danby being excessively tired and assisted him to bed.  He went to check on him some time later and found him… found he had passed away, perfectly quietly and tranquilly in his sleep.  He called for the hotel doctor but there was nothing to be done. The doctor confirmed that Lord Danby could not be revived.”

“I can’t believe it.  Poor Harrison… he must be devastated.  His secretary was quite devoted.” She hastened to explain.  “But what was the doctor’s prognosis?”

“We haven’t seen any death certificate or had the cause of death confirmed but we are advised it was natural causes.  This is being dealt with by the French authorities.  We understand too that Lord Danby’s son, Viscount St John, is on his way to Nice.”

“Yes, of course. “

“If there is anything the Governor’s office can do Lady Danby, will you please let us know?  We are at your service,” he handed over his card and looked rather uncomfortable.

Jack moved over to him, “Thank you so much for letting Lady Danby know in person.  I believe she is in some shock.  Is there any report you can provide?  What documents can be made available to her?  Are you the contact?”

The gentleman handed over the telegrams and nodded as Jack showed him out, “Yes sir.  I will remain in contact as further information comes to hand.”

Jack’s head buzzed as he walked back into the parlour.  Phryne was sitting in the chair, motionless, her head in her hands.

“Phryne, I don’t know what to say. Can I have Mr Butler to get you something?”

She nodded and when he returned she looked at him with eyes glazed, “I can’t believe it Jack.  Poor Harrison.  And I am so far away.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I must send a telegram to Harrison and one to St John straight away.”

Mr Butler entered with a drink, “A tonic madam, it will calm the nerves.  My condolences.  Is there anyone you would like me to telephone?”

“Thank you Mr B.  Please don’t wait up any longer, go to bed.  Inspector Robinson will help me now. No need to wake the household, nothing is going to change between now and the morning. Jack, could you help me with the telegrams.  Could you telephone them through?”

She downed Mr B’s nerve-calming cocktail, wrote out two messages, and handed them to Jack who went to the hallway telephone to have them transmitted.  It took some time to contact the GPO,  to find the right contacts for the Negresco in Nice, for the dictation and then confirmation of the messages that were to be relayed by telegraph, to hear confusion about the correct form of transmission to France, and when he returned to the parlour Phryne was curled in the chair, with her head resting on her arm and sound asleep.  He looked around and considered carrying her upstairs to her bedroom but the thought of it, of carrying her in his arms, of placing her on her bed, of covering her with her eiderdown,  disturbed him more than he could logically explain to himself.  He looked about for a rug or throw to cover her, but he couldn't see anything suitable.  He walked out to the hallway where his overcoat hung on a hook and took it back into the parlour and wrapped it around her where she slept, placed a cushion under her head, and quietly left the house.

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

Inspector Robinson could not concentrate on anything at all in the office the next morning.  He read and re-read every paper in his files but nothing of their meaning made its way to his brain.  He would put them down and stare at the wall opposite and contemplate the series of events that had taken place in the previous twenty-four hours, events that presented as tumble weeds rolling and buffeted by the wind, directionless.  He dared not think of what this might mean for him, for them.  His immediate thought was that she would leave immediately, return to England, that he would have seen her for one crowded day and then no more, possibly for months.  He wondered what she would have to do in England and for how long.  Surely now she would come back home?

A nervous tapping at his office door brought him back to the present, “Come.”

Louise Walsted walked in, “Good morning Inspector Robinson, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all,” he stood and motioned for her to sit. “How are you?  Would you like some tea?”  His head was still heavy from the night before and he felt he needed the comfort of a cup of tea to calm his own thoughts, as well as provide composure for a conversation with Louise Walsted.

“Tea would be lovely thank you.”

“Collins isn’t in yet, and he makes the best tea so we’ll have to make do with an inferior brew I’m afraid.”  He walked to the door, “Constable, some tea please,” and returning to his desk asked kindly, “So, how are things?”

“Well I’ve come to say goodbye actually.  It is settled that we are leaving tomorrow.  Mum and dad are here with the truck, Barry has moved in to the dock workers’ hostel and the house is pretty much packed.  So just the formalities left.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.  But I am sure things will work out for you.  You may find you can come back when you’re a little older and can be more independent.  You have your reference from The Athenaeum and that will stand you in good stead.”

She looked indignant, “I am quite old enough.  It’s just my parents think it improper for me to live on my own.  I don’t agree with them at all but I am not in a position to argue.”

“Yes well I am far too sensible to come between a young lady and her parents.  I will not give you my opinion.”

The tea arrived and she took a parcel from her handbag, “You wouldn’t let me take you to the concert, but I hope you will accept a very small gift from me, as a thank you for all you have done.  I couldn’t have been happier here and it was all as result of meeting you that evening at the hospital.”  She handed it to him.

He opened the brown paper wrapping to reveal Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own.  He smiled at the extended essay that he knew questioned whether women were as free to write as men, that  unless they had their financial independence, their creativity and licence to write would always be stifled.  The parallel with what Louise Walsted saw as her lot, was not lost on him,

“Thank you Miss Walsted, I shall think of you as I read it.  You are very kind.” 

She lowered her eyes and looked deliberately at her tea cup as the duty constable noisily tried to prevent Lady Danby entering the room.  Phryne was not to be stopped,

“Jack, oh…”

“Lady Danby, this is Miss Louise Walsted.  Miss Walsted, Lady Danby.  You knew of her as The Hon Phryne Fisher, who arranged for you to work at The Athenaeum.”

“Miss Fisher, Lady Danby, how lovely to meet you.  I have heard so much about you from Mrs Collins.  I can never thank you enough for your kindness.”

Phryne shook her extended hand and gave both Miss Walsted and Jack a mischievous look in turn.

“What is it Phryne?”

“It’s serious.  I am sorry to rush in, but there is something very urgent that has arisen.  Oh, and here is your coat that you left at my house,” she very deliberately took the coat that was folded over her arm and handed it to Jack, who looked abashed and went over to the coat stand and hung it up.

Miss Wasted looked from one to the other, “I’m on my way.  I just called to say goodbye.  I am so pleased to have met you Lady Danby.  I do hope Inspector Robinson passed on my appreciation of your finding me work.  I absolutely loved it, every minute.  Goodbye, goodbye Inspector Robinson.”  And with that she left, sensing that there was far more to DI Jack Robinson than she could ever have imagined, and it had everything to do with that mysterious woman.  She had planned the meeting so carefully, the goodbye, the book and its theme, the last chance for him to realise they were meant to be.  But it wasn’t to be.  Not at all. She put her hat firmly on her pretty head and left.

“She is very attractive Jack.  What a shame she’s had to leave…”

“You said there was something urgent.  Tell me, how are you?  How are you feeling?”

“Look at this Jack.  It’s from Harrison.  He suspects foul play.  Read it!”  She thrust the telegram at him.

He read aloud, “Dear Phryne stop need you urgently stop something not right stop cannot be natural causes stop come as soon as you can stop tell me what to do stop”

“I have sent him a telegram to say he must take photographs of the room, to collect all Alexander’s clothing, to keep all items he ate and drank from if possible, to demand that the body is kept at the morgue.  But we must go and go immediately.”

“We?  You mean you and Jane?”

"No of course not.  You and I must go and investigate.”

“Me?  How can I possibly go to France and investigate with you?  I have no authority, no jurisdiction and…”

“I think you’ll find Jack that having been married to one of the wealthiest peers in England has some benefits and that lovely Mr Street last night did offer to be of any assistance that I required so-”

The young constable came into the room, looking anxious and flushed.

“What is it Constable, can’t you see I’m busy?”  Jack snapped.

“The Commissioner is on the telephone for you sir.”

Phryne looked at the ceiling as Jack was transferred the call, “Yes sir… of course sir… I’d be happy to sir… Thank you for your confidence sir.”

Jack cleared his throat, “Right well it appears that I have been appointed to accompany you on behalf of the British and Australian governments and to offer French authorities my assistance.”

“How on earth can we expedite getting there Jack?  It will take us weeks.  If only I hadn’t left my plane-“

“Oh no, no way.  But what about your friend Captain McCutcheon who is keen to break the flying record.  Perhaps he could fly us there?”

“Brilliant Jack. I'll see him straight away. Now go home and pack, we need to be on our way.”

 


	24. Chapter 24

Captain McCutcheon was both alarmed and surprised at the request he received from Lady Phryne Danby.  He expressed his sincere condolences at her loss and was genuinely shocked at the change in her circumstances that had been both recent in terms of her marriage and dramatic in terms of her widowhood.  He was not surprised, however, that his proposed commission involved not only herself but DI Jack Robinson also. He sensed there was much more to his delivery of a pile of letters to the City South Police Station in the latter part of the previous year than an efficiency of mail service.  He had immediately liked the Inspector and felt his relationship to the beautiful and talented paramedic Miss Fisher, as the Captain had known her in the war, was more than superficial.

The three of them pored over maps and schedules, air routes and documentation of airfields and fuelling stations, spread across Phryne’s dining table.  Captain McCutcheon had compasses and geometrical instruments too.

“I think we can do it in well under fourteen days in the Trimotor. And that is perfect for me as I’ll try and break Hinkler’s solo record London-Darwin on the way back in the Gipsey Moth. ”

“His is sixteen days?”

“Yes.  There’s an English aviatrix, Amy Johnson, do you know her?  She has the same aim. But we can do the flying over in shifts, can go longer distances in the Trimotor and faster, and fly into the evening, there’ll be no need for long stops other than refuelling and for the hours of darkness.  I’ll fly back in your Gipsey Moth from London through Vienna rather than Nice, it will be quicker.  I think I can shave at least two days off Hinkler’s flight if we take the same route over as a trial.  You’re up for flying a Ford Trimotor Phryne?”

“Of course!”

Jack groaned.

“Jack all you’ll need to do is sit back and relax.  It’s a very comfortable aircraft for passengers. Captain McCutcheon and I will do all the work.  So we’re saying what, eleven or twelve days?”

“I think so, weather permitting, even ten! The plane’s ready and with the imprimatur of governments that you seem to have managed to procure Phryne, we have all the permissions we need for landing, with very little trouble to any of us. So we can leave as early as possible tomorrow morning.”

“You’ll stay to dinner George? Jack?”

Over an early dinner they discussed the exact landing points on the route from Melbourne through Darwin, over the Dutch East Indies stopping in Surabaya, then through Singapore and Bangkok, Calcutta, Karachi, Baghdad, Constantinople and from there to Nice. The two men got on well, having enjoyed a drink together when Captain McCutcheon delivered the letters from Phryne. Phryne appeared in her element entertaining both of them, flirting quietly, perhaps sobered by the fact that she was a recent widow about to embark upon an examination of her late husband’s death.   

Mr Butler was kept busy not only on dinner duties but wiring telegraphs to book hotels and confirming their arrival with Harrison Johnson and the new Earl, Lord St John Danby.  George McCutcheon left straight after their meal with promises of a very early rising on his part to ready the plane for the next day, leaving Phryne and Jack to contemplate how they were to go about an investigation two weeks after a death, with only suspicions, no evidence, and confronting French authorities who would, no doubt, have little interest in the case, apart from seeing it closed.

Few further details had come through from Harrison. That critical night they had had a drink at one of local cafés, and later as had been reported by diplomatic channels, had dinner at the hotel restaurant followed by a drink in their suite.  Lord Danby had indeed appeared tired but, Harrison had had to admit, was suffering anxiety as a result of the threatened court case with the claims about the train accident and his company’s liability increasing in intensity.  The meetings in Paris had not gone well and he had been feeling the strain of what lay ahead in terms of legal challenges and counter claims.  The trip to Nice for a few weeks had been an attempt to alleviate his stresses.  Alexander Danby was not a young man, having already celebrated his 70th birthday, and Harrison had been forced to admit that there was the possibility that worry may have had an impact on his death. Yet his doubts remained and he had been greatly buoyed by Phryne’s promise of a hasty arrival, bringing a local detective with her.

Despite the prospect of the limitations the investigation may bring Phryne and Jack were both feeling discreet excitement at what was in store for them.  An investigation, together, doing what they do best, in a fashionable location, on the other side of the world: this was the stuff they found exhilarating.  For both it was a world turned upside down from events that had been personally tumultuous.  Neither spoke of what this might mean, until Jack got up to leave,

“I must go.  I haven’t finished packing and I need to call in at the station on my way home to complete the paper work for the handover to my replacement.  So I’ll see you out at the airfield in the morning.”

She got up too and went up to him and touched him lightly on the chest, “You could come back once you've done that, and stay here… and we could go together in the morning…”

 “I’ll pick you up in the morning,” Jack swallowed hard, “But … I don’t think… we shouldn't…  I shouldn't stay … just yet.  It would be wrong.  What would his family, what would Collins think? It’s not that I don’t want to… Phryne… but not yet.”  He ran his finger down her cheek and onto her neck, and repeated, “I must go.”

She walked with him to the door and held out his coat and hat to him from their hooks on the hall stand, and as he went to take them from her, their eyes locked as they stood inches apart. Both remained quiet, neither prepared to interrupt the moment with a sound or a movement, they remained silent and still, frozen in motionlessness. In the hush between them he became conscious of his heart pounding, of the brightness of her eyes and wafts of her perfume. He drew her slowly to him, one hand firmly around her hip, the other cradling her cheek. He kissed her lightly and gently on her upper lip, then brushed her lower lip, then pulled back slightly until he sensed her respond. He returned deeper, as he felt her mouth warm and soft and sensual. His tongue caressed hers momentarily as their lips lingered before closing. He drew away from her, leaving him wanting more and her feeling the need to memorise the sensation she’d just experienced.

He took the hat and coat she was still holding, and left with a throaty “Good night”.  Phryne closed the door and leaned back on to it, the faintest of smiles about lips still tingling from his embrace.

 


	25. Chapter 25

Captain McCutcheon was efficiency and professionalism from the time they arrived at the airfield, with detailed plans, maps and orders for them both.  He entertained no pleasantries and was focussed and determined, greeting them rather formally and letting them know he was anxious to use all the daylight hours of the day in the air.

The steel-built commercial plane was well-equipped for passengers with upholstered seats in one area and bunks for sleeping in another.  They had agreed to sleep on the plane in shifts to maximise their time in the air, and in more remote locations over the Dutch East Indies and India. The only overnight stops would be for overhaul of the plane and to refresh themselves in major cities equipped for the purposes.  Phryne was determined they should re-visit Raffles having become partial to a Singapore Sling in the Long Bar and she had, since her first visit, longed to sit at the bar with Jack.  As she had written to him about that exact image, Jack was not at all averse to completing it.  They sat companionably sipping the famous cocktail and shelling peanuts, with George checking through the timing they were making and equally, fine-tuning in his mind the adjustments he’d have to make for his solo return, with Phryne and Jack sharing ideas for shaving hours off his timings and keen to follow his plans for a potentially record-breaking  attempt.

The two detectives had used the time on the flight so far putting together what they knew of the facts they had in relation to the investigation ahead, what evidence they would have to try and procure and who they would need to meet and interview.  They needed a timeline of events, where Lord Danby had been in the 24 hours prior to his death, who he had met, what he had eaten and drunk, anything out of the ordinary or unusual in terms of his routines, and whether he had complained of any illness in the time in Paris or later in Nice. 

“You’ll be needing the support of the Embassy I imagine,” contributed George McCutcheon, “I can’t imagine dealing with French authorities about a British peer will be easy.  I don’t mean to sound callous Phryne, but I doubt you will find much sympathy from the French.  The locals would have been happy to have had Lord Danby’s regular custom, but they will not be readily available to help you if mistrust abounds.”

“We are fully prepared for a plethora of “bofs” and Gallic shrugs but we will have to persist.  Harrison is as reliable a barometer as I know when it comes… came to Alexander.  He knew him very well.  He simply would not have raised any suspicions had they not been well-founded.  Poor man.”

“He is still in Nice?”

“Yes, he has stayed on at the Negresco and maintained the suite.  For strategic reasons, not nostalgic or gruesome.  If he stays there, we have better access to the staff and to the rooms of course. And all of Alexander’s things remain there, untouched.  He is very relieved we are on our way.”

“What about the son?” asked Jack. “What’s he like?”

“A typical upper class snob I'm afraid.  Must be more like his mother than his father.”

“How so?”

“Alexander was quite urbane, very charming, but tolerant and always polite and courteous. He could mix with anyone.  He was just as much at ease in social gatherings as with the workers in his factories.  He was popular.  The former Lady Danby I gather was very much part of the upper-class milieu, very socially conscious, concerned about status and prestige and where everyone fitted.  She was the larger influence in bringing up their only child, as Alexander was so busy with the estate and the business and I suppose that was how things were.  I fear she brought St John up in her own mould rather than Alexander’s.  But St John and Alexander were still close I believe.”

“And how did you get on with him?  What was his reaction to his father’s second marriage?”

“He didn't welcome my appearance on the scene with open arms, but I think he more resented my presence on the estate than in his father’s life; but we got on, he’s pleasant enough, as is his wife, Isobel.  Probably doesn't think I am quite right, not from noble enough stock, despite Father’s title.”

“He wasn't concerned about you and his father adding to the lineage?” McCutcheon asked, naïve as to the circumstances of the marriage.

Phryne and Jack exchanged a quick glance, before she responded, “No, not at all.  The estate was always entailed to him.  There was no threat from half siblings.  He has two children, two boys but I didn't pose a risk.”

“What happens with him now?  Does he inherit everything?”

“Yes, the title and the estate, although he’s had little to do with the business, the steel manufacturing side of the business.  There will be some kind of contingencies there I imagine for the partners to sort out.”

“So you won’t be staying on the estate?”  Jack had wanted to know since the day she arrived back but hadn't dared ask.

“I imagine not.  That was never the intent.  St John and Isobel have their own property although I imagine St John has always taken a keen interest in the estate, and will want to move in and take over as soon as possible, but he will be generous in allowing me time to leave, I suppose.  This is all so unexpected I've never thought about it.”

Jack just tilted his head slightly, trying to fathom what it meant.

Phryne sensing he needed to know more then added, “I have little there that means anything to me.  Apart from better proximity to Mother and Father.  But I didn't move away from them to Melbourne before for no reason, I never wanted to be near them, and I have every intention of moving back, as soon as it is politely possible.  Mother and Father don’t need me any longer and I am quite sure the new Lord Danby would wish me to make my move sooner rather than later.”

George McCutcheon collected together his papers, “Now we need to have early dinner if you don’t mind.  I want to leave at the crack of dawn tomorrow.  You two of a mind for that?”

Phryne downed the last of her drink, took Jack’s arm and followed the Captain to the restaurant in the palm court.

* * *

 

Jack’s admiration for Phryne’s expertise as co-pilot at the controls only increased as she and McCutcheon flew in shifts from dawn to dusk over the next five days prior to landing in Constantinople, staying again at the Pera Palace where Phryne had been with Jane not a month prior.

“I think we can do Nice in a day. I hope so at least. A long day but I think we’ll be there by sunset Phryne. I’m not prepared to say mission accomplished yet but that will be the aim. What say you?”

“I say I need a long hot bath, a pleasant meal with the finest travel companions one could ever meet, and a very deep sleep. Then I might just be prepared to say I’m looking forward to the last leg.” She looked drained and Jack took her arm, and steered her towards her room,

“Are you all right? It is extraordinary what you've been through. We can stay here for a day or so if you would like. Don’t push on at the expense of your own health.”

“I’ll be fine Jack. I just want to get there and that’s making me anxious on top of the long days.” She turned to him and repeated, “I’ll be fine. And it will be better when we are together, doing the investigating, won’t it?” She held onto his arm firmly, despite arriving at her room, “… when we are together, doing what we do best?”

He nodded, longing to open the door of her room and go in with her, imagining it was their room, not hers. “Hmmm, yes, I am looking forward to it. Not sure I'm a devotee of this long haul flying. I’ll be glad to be on the ground and policing, of sorts… see you downstairs.”

“What will you do ‘til dinner time?”

“I’ll shower and change, then go back to my French phrase book. Enjoy your bath……,” his voice trailed away as if he were seeing her in the bath, before collecting himself.

“You could say that in French, just for practice!”

“Well it depends, should I use the formal or familiar with you?”

“Definitely the familiar…”

“Umm, let’s see… amuse-toi bien… dans le bain ...sans moi.” (1)

“What was that last bit?” He looked at her and smiled, and she simply smiled back with one of her arch looks he always found so difficult to translate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... sans moi - without me


	26. Chapter 26

The stunning pink and white facade of Le Negresco with its domed tower loomed large in front of them in the early evening light. It stood majestically opposite the sparkling bay of the Mediterranean and the famous promenade that ran alongside it. As the taxi pulled up at the entrance they were immediately swarmed by attendants to help them with luggage and coats, and checking in arrangements, and contacting Monsieur  ‘arrison Johnson.

In the lobby, foyers and lounges were an impressive collection of art works by Moretti, Dalí, sculptures by Niki de Saint-Phalle, strikingly mixed with the interiors’ rare antiques and historical paintings showcasing five centuries of French history and art. 

Jack instantly felt uncomfortable in a hotel designed for the rich and famous, while Phryne waltzed around as if it were made for her.  They were met by a middle-aged man, with a harrowed look but through this could be seen a handsome face with greying hair and deep-set grey eyes; he wore relaxed but elegant casual wear, befitting the beachside location.

“Phryne…,” he hugged her, “so good of you to come and so quickly!  How on earth did you do it?”

“We flew! Poor Harrison. I am so sorry.  How are you?”

“Shattered. But I will be alright, eventually.  My darling girl, I am so glad you are here.  I know you can fix everything.”

“This is Inspector Robinson from the Victoria Police.  He will help us too.  You won’t find a better policeman.”

“Jack, Jack Robinson.  I was very sorry to hear of Lord Danby’s death Mr Johnson.  I will do anything I can.”

The two men shook hands and the party made their way to their rooms, Phryne occupying a sumptuous suite consisting of a bedroom and lounge with a furnished balcony overlooking the sea; Jack with a more modest room with a view of the courtyard.  They then reconvened in Le Relais, a bar with walnut-panelling and rich 17th century tapestries and discreetly grouped armchairs.

“You must tell us everything you can recollect Harrison, from the time you arrived here from Paris.  And as painful as it is, the night he died, every detail that you can remember.  And we must go up to the suite and have a look around, so it would be better if we talked about that night in situ.”

They ordered drinks, and Harrison insisted on champagne, “We can celebrate his life can’t we?  And I am so glad he met you Phryne.  I am sure your being here will help him now, as you helped him enormously this year.”  He looked over cautiously at Jack.

“It’s alright Harrison, Jack understands.  There’s no need to hide anything.  Now what about St John, and the Embassy  - are they here? Obviously I’d like St John to be part of some decisions,” said Phryne.

“He’s not here, but I’ve telegraphed him to say you’re arrived so he’ll be here in a day or so.  He came down as soon as Alex … it happened and stayed several days, then went back once we’d had your telegram saying that we must leave everything.  But he will be keen to see you.”

“And what diplomatic services do we have?”

“Well the Embassy in Paris will send an attaché as soon as we start these processes.  That should assist with the authorities and getting the permissions we need. What would you suggest we are looking for?”

“We don’t know yet,” put in Jack, “we really only have your suspicions, so if you can tell us all you know and what exactly happened, and we can have a look around, we may be able to instruct the police here.  It will be a diplomatic nightmare I imagine, so I’m glad you have the Embassy staff on side.”

Harrison sighed, “The press aren’t onto it yet, but they will be if there is any whiff of an inquest.  His passing has been reported of course and obituaries written.  But no-one is aware of my suspicions publicly. They think we are just waiting your return before the funeral can be arranged.  They will be here, cameras in hand tomorrow, you can be sure of it my dear.  I hope you have your widow’s weeds packed.”

Phryne reached out and touched his hand, “You know I will play my part and you know I was very fond of Alex.  I won’t be acting my very sincere sorrow.  Now tell us what you can.”

Harrison related their arrival from Paris, “We’d had a difficult time with our lawyers and meetings with the train company and the strain was showing on Alex but I didn’t think it was any more than would be normal in those circumstances. The French lawyers and representatives of the company were aggressive and demanding.  They also had photographs of the accident site, the rails warped and mangled, the carriages most impacted, then there were the photographs of the victims, the injured and the dead.  It was disturbing and upsetting, no matter whose fault it all was.  But it was humiliating too and Alex was affected.  We caught the train down straight after the last meeting, so we arrived on the Tuesday evening.  I had booked for three weeks but straight away extended it for a further two as I could see Alex lift the moment we arrived.  I arranged for his papers to be sent here so he could continue to work – you know how he hates to be away from it.  And with you in Australia, it was the perfect timing for him to have a break from the estate.”

“How did his anxiety over the case manifest?  Were there symptoms that could have meant angina or heart attack, or hypertension?  I am so sorry I wasn’t here.”

“Don’t say that Phryne.  That would make me feel inadequate and I believe I knew him better than anyone.”

“I didn’t mean any criticism on your part.  I am only remorseful you had to bear it alone – that’s all.”

“There was nothing that indicated that he was ill.  He ate normally, we went for walks every day, visited the museums, he spent several hours a day with work.  If he had symptoms, other than anxiety, I wasn’t aware of them. But he talked endlessly of the case.  He’d go over and over the same evidence, the same discussions – that’s how I know he was struggling with it.”

Jack broke in, “What was the final prognosis? What was eventually determined as the cause of death on the doctor’s certificate?”

“ _C_ _auses_ _naturelles_.”

“But obviously no requirement for an autopsy?”

“No, as it was determined that he was of an age.”

“And, I’m sorry Mr Johnson-”

“Please call me Harrison, then I can call you Jack.”

“Very well, Harrison, um, the, um Lord Danby’s body is at the morgue?”

“Yes, yes. The poor man cannot be buried, but that’s what Phryne told me to do.  I can’t believe you got here so quickly.  Amazing. ”

“Can we go up to the suite now Harrison?  And I would like to walk through everything that happened on that last day, especially that evening,” Jack spoke quietly though seriously.

The older man sighed, “Yes, come along.”

The suite, like Phryne’s, had a bedroom and lounge area where Lord Danby had a desk and obviously used it as a study, with a stunning view of the Mediterranean from the balcony.  It sparkled calmly and glinted almost ironically at them as they looked around the room.

Phryne approached a delicate subject, “Where did you sleep Harrison?”

“My room is on this floor but I often slept in here,” he glanced somewhat apprehensively at Jack who had perhaps deliberately focussed his attention on Lord Danby’s desk, “but that night Alex was so tired I went to my own room.  I was worried, worried enough to come back and check on him.”

Jack turned and with his notepad in hand, “Before we get to that, could we go through that day, as much as you can relate.  Shall we go onto the balcony?” 

It was indeed a beautiful evening and looking onto the water was soothing, and perhaps removed Harrison from the painful memories that the suite may have provoked.

“We had a walk first thing, along the Promenade, that’s what we did each morning it was fine, so most days; then I think that day we stopped at one of the cafés on the way back to the hotel. Sometimes we had breakfast downstairs, but if it was fine, we’d stop somewhere on the way back from the walk.”

“Did you stop at any particular one?”

“There are several along this avenue opposite the Promenade.  We tended to go to one of two or three, depending on the tables available.”

“What did you have?”

“We’d have an orange juice, a croissant, coffee.  Café crème.“

“Then?”

“Walked back to the hotel and back to our rooms.  Alex would have come here to the suite, I went to my own room.  We got showered and changed. I then came here and did whatever Alex would have asked me to do for the business or the legal proceedings.”

“And that day, do you remember what you were dealing with?”

“He’d been working on the case mostly, ever since we arrived here, he’d got me to write up notes on the Paris meetings and then he edited them, meticulously, and returned them to me to amend and type; he gave me instructions for the lawyers and I’d sent them as telegrams; I drafted letters for him.”

“And all the notes would be here still?”

“Yes, everything’s here.”

“We’ll need to look through them.”

“What for?”

“We don’t know yet but it would be good to look through them.”

“Of course.”

Phryne persisted, “So how long did you work before a break?”

“Perhaps ‘til about one and then we had lunch brought to us, we’d have it here on the balcony most days. An omelette, frites, salade, glass of wine, that kind of thing.  That’s what we probably had that day.”

“Who brought it to you?”

“One of the housekeeping staff I think.”

“Were they regulars?  Did you know them?”

“Yes, there are a few of them.”

“Male, female?”

“Male.  They don’t seem to have females on room service.  The women tend to do the cleaning, but the reception, bar staff, the restaurant, the bistro, room service seem to be males.”

“When was your room cleaned?  If you spent a good part of the day here, when did the chamber maids come through?”

“Afternoons, after lunch as that’s when we went out.  They weren’t done while we were on our morning walks – that was too early.”

“So after lunch you went out?”

“We liked to visit somewhere or go for another walk.  That day we went to the museum, the Beaux Arts.  It’s not been open long, just a couple of years.  It traces the history of art from 16th to this century, paintings and sculptures.  Alex wanted to see the Fragonard collection and some of the newer works, Rodin and Monet and Sisley. So we spent a few hours there -  it was a lovely afternoon.  Really lovely…  We went to a café on the way home, one of the ones along here, stopped for un apéro, and to watch the passing parade as you do here.”

“What did you drink? Do you remember?”

“Alex loved the French habits, and he liked to adopt them here, he liked to fit in. He liked pastis, Pernod, which I can’t abide, I had Dubonnet.  He loved going out for his evening apéro. We stayed there for an hour or so.  We’d pass remarks on the people strolling by, pick out the tourists and the locals, and pride ourselves in not standing out as tourists.  I’m not sure we succeeded but Alex thought we did.

“We would have got back here early evening, perhaps around six thirty or seven, got changed for dinner.  We went down to the brasserie, 'La Rotonde’; it is a beautiful creative folly that Alex liked, one of the places that makes this hotel so magical.

“And I know one of you will ask me what we had. I think he had the beef and I had the lamb cutlets.  We had a couple of glasses of red wine and the dessert, the ice creams, sublime, but I don’t remember the flavours. No coffee.  You know that Phryne, Alex felt it would keep him awake, so we didn’t have coffee, we rarely did.”

“Anything unusual at dinner?  Did you notice people at the other tables, waiters, anything different on the menu?  Anyone pay you particular attention?  Did anyone introduce themselves?  Bump  into you? Knock anything or put anything on the table?”

He shook his head, “Nothing that comes to mind. Then we came up here and Alex had a scotch.”

“He ordered it, or you kept a bottle here?” Jack put in.

“No, he ordered it.”

“I had a hot chocolate.  We got room service to bring them up here.”

“Same person as at lunchtime?”

“Probably the same person, yes. I don’t know what shifts they do.”

“Male, one of the regulars?”

“Yes.  Is that important?”

“Possibly, we don’t know.  Go on.  Lord Danby had a whiskey, you had hot chocolate.  What time was this?”

“Not very late.  About 10. We talked about the museum, how we had enjoyed it. Then Alex complained of being very tired.  And he really did seem incredibly tired.  Tired and a bit inebriated.”

“Inebriated, you mean drunk?”

“Yes, he appeared really quite tipsy.  Slurring his words and not quite compos mentis. So I helped him get undressed and got him into bed.”

“Do you think he had had too much to drink?”

“That’s what I find odd.  He hadn’t had more than usual.  A drink at lunch, another before dinner, a couple of glasses of wine during dinner and the whiskey afterwards.  He was used to that amount.”

“When you undressed him, you didn’t notice anything unusual – bruises, rashes, any markings?”

He shook his head.

“So you got him into bed, and then?”  Jack kept noting down each remark.

“I went to my own room, and probably read for an hour or so.  I then came back here, to the suite, as I was concerned about him.  He seemed to be so affected so quickly.  And then that’s when I realised he wasn’t breathing.”  His voice faltered, he looked away, out to the sea.

“You called the doctor then?  The hotel doctor?”

He seemed to collect himself after a few moments, “I called the concierge, the reception.  I suppose they called the doctor.  The concierge came up straight away then the manager, then the doctor arrived.  There were a lot of people around.  I just did nothing.”

“How long did the doctor stay and the others?”

“I don’t really remember.  I think it was just the doctor and the manager stayed. They told me to leave. Said they’d let me know.  I was sent off to my room. They arranged for the ambulance to take him to the hospital morgue once the doctor had made the pronouncement.”

“You didn’t tell the doctor about his fatigue, the effects of the alcohol?”

“Well no.  I was completely overwhelmed, nothing made sense.  I was in shock I think now looking back.  I didn’t even remember about it until the next day.  That’s when I sent you the telegram Phryne.  I didn’t know what to do or who to tell.”

“What about the clothes he was wearing?  And the glass he had for the whiskey?”

“He was sent to the morgue with the clothes he had on, his pyjamas.  I have the clothes from that evening and all of that day in fact.  And the whiskey glass, yes.  I have them bagged in my room.  I kept them all, just like you told me. But nothing else, not the lunch dishes or the evening dishes, of course.”

“Can I see all the paper work?  Can you let me know where it all is?  I’d like to look through it all, please.  Perhaps starting first thing in the morning.”  Jack felt that they had probably covered enough for their first day.

“Everything’s on his desk. It’s all there.”

 “So now we must go about the post-mortem, getting it authorised.  Any idea Jack?”

“I think that will need to wait on the attaché you mentioned Harrison.    Best to leave that to the authorities.  If we have the request from the widow and the son, I don’t think they can refuse.”

“The attaché should be here from Paris tomorrow or the next day I believe, now that you two are here and St John will be too.  They will probably arrive on the same train.”

“What did St John do when he was here after it happened?  How was he?”

“Well, he was obviously upset, very upset.  He came with Isobel, not the little boys, and they stayed here for several days.  But when they realised that we had to wait for you to come over, they went back.  He, St John, was quite distressed about not being able to make funeral arrangements as of course it was in the papers.  He wants to have the funeral at home, so to make arrangements to have the body sent back to England so he can be buried on the estate.  But that will be for you and he to talk about.”

“Yes I imagine. And how much detail did you tell him?”

“Just that I was concerned about how unexpected it was, how unusual, that intense fatigue he suffered.  But St John never did have much time for me, you know that Phryne dear – you must have noticed.”

“St John knew about you I suppose?”

“I expect so.  If Alex didn’t tell him, the first Lady Danby would have I imagine.  He and his mother were close.”

“Shall we have some dinner?  It’s getting late and I think our last meal may have been breakfast at some ungodly hour this morning in Constantinople wasn’t it Jack?  And I like the sound of this bistrot that’s a folly with sublime ice cream.”

“Why don’t you two go?  I don’t want to impose myself anymore.  You’re probably sick of hearing from me”

Both immediately protested, “Don’t be silly and anyway, I don’t want the press making any insinuations about the widow and the handsome policeman,” she looked coyly at Jack who simply raised his eyebrows and looked embarrassed.


	27. Chapter 27

Jack tapped quietly on her door early the next morning and a moment later a tousled Phryne with a silk robe draped precariously around her opened the door a crack,

“Is it that time already?”

“It is.  We are going for a _promenade_ before _les Anglais_ remember?  Pull on some clothes, something sombre, I’ll meet you downstairs.”

In the foyer there seemed to be more staff than patrons although the early hour may well have accounted for this; his having been immediately handed an English newspaper the moment he sat down. His locale was so enthralling he could scarcely concentrate on the journal’s content, he was surrounded by enormous art works and sculptures, rich decoration, a flamboyance of furnishings. And yet despite the glamour of the décor, his temptation to go beyond the hotel and venture out was greater than his captivation with remaining indoors.  The location was beyond anything he could have ever contemplated; even during the war, R and R for most was London, for him, Paris.  The mystique of the Côte D’Azur carried with it connotations of peace even in the years of war-torn Europe. And now here he was, in the midst of an absorbing investigation in one of the world’s most luxurious locations, awaiting the ever-fascinating Phryne Fisher to accompany him on a morning constitutional.  The newspaper lost and he folded it neatly, crossed his arms, bare, with his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles, and waited.

She arrived looking fresh and resplendent, “Sombre enough?”

She wore black pants and camisole and a bolero with emerald green diamante edging, and a lustrous black woven straw hat with a soft-rolling graduated brim trimmed with a cluster of green ribbons; she held a folded black parasol and wore dark sunglasses which she peered over.

“Passably sombre, but I’m not sure you could ever look truly funereal.”

“You look casual.  Not sure I’m very used to that.”

“Nor am I but I don’t expect a suit is appropriate for the Promenade des Anglais.  Shall we?” he held out his arm to her.

They crossed the avenue with a palm-lined central island and onto the broad walkway named after the tourists who regularly exercised along its wide footpath.  The water sparkled a welcome as the turquoise and deep blue bay stretched out before them, and they turned and walked towards the town.

“Not a bad spot for sleuthing Jack?”

“Well _Nice is nice_ as the postcards say, although that may be Gallic understatement.”

“Where do you think we should start?  I thought I might send Mac a telegram with those symptoms, the tiredness, the seeming drunkenness, see what she thinks.”

“You think poison?”

“What else could it be, apart from _causes naturelles_?”

“That does seem to be our only clue, doesn't it – that fatigue and the sense of inebriation.  I thought I might do the paperwork, the death certificate, doctor’s report.  It was an English doctor, so I'm presuming I don’t have to brush up on my medical French.  I want to go through his business papers too, see if there is anything there.”

“Hotel staff?”

 “Yes, we’ll need the names of those on duty around the time, the chambermaids, restaurant staff, room service, day mangers, night managers, porters, and then interview them all.  I’ll leave you to deal with the son.”

“Yes, I imagine he will want a say in everything.”

“Is that right?  He will interfere?”

“I imagine so. I have a feeling he won’t want any publicity.  He’ll want it kept as quiet as possible.  There’s no love lost between him and Harrison so there may be some tensions there.”

“Will Harrison be all right? Financially I mean?  Would Lord Danby have made arrangements for him?”

“Yes I imagine so.  Alexander was meticulous about that kind of thing.  I am as sure Harrison will be comfortable as I'm sure the new Lord will dispense with his services fairly quickly.”

“How old is St John?”

“Not much older than me I don’t think.  Alexander married his first wife quite late in life.  Perhaps he was pressured to marry for the sake of the title and lineage as he obviously had little interest.  I gather it was virtually arranged for him, a suitable young woman found.  He and Harrison have been together for thirty years, so they met fairly soon after he was married.”

“Awkward,” commented Jack.

“Yes potentially troublesome.”

“But the Lord produced an heir, he did the right thing.  But the first Lady Danby must have found the prospect of a loveless marriage rather overwhelming.  What was her name?”

“Deirdre.”

“Deirdre of the Sorrows, Yeats.  And in the Irish legend she died of a broken heart, being forced to marry against her will.  Rather prophetic.”

“Well I'm not sure it was against her will. They may have loved each other, of sorts. Alexander was a kind, generous person and he always spoke kindly of her although I gather she was an inveterate snob.  He would have given her whatever she wanted, just _rien la nuit_ …”

“Yes, just not that.”

“It can cause a woman to go quite mad, Jack, you know.  Such denial of what is natural when two people love each other.”  She squeezed his arm a little more tightly and looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Can it indeed?  And you know this do you?”  Jack kept his eyes firmly fixed ahead of him.

“And I can imagine it is the same for a man?”

“Possibly it is, possibly it is the same for a man.”

“We could go mad together?”

“Or not.  But you know the last thing you need is more controversy in this case.  The widow investigating the suspicious death of her husband…”

“…whilst having a passionate affair with the handsome detective on the case.  No that wouldn't do.”

“Can you stave off the madness for a little while longer?”

“Very well.  But only for a little while.  Now where shall we have breakfast?  One of these nice _cafés en face de la mer_  ?”

«  _Oui mademoiselle, pourquoi pas_  ? »

 

* * *

 

Back at the hotel Harrison Johnson had the news that St John and the British attaché, Sir Reginald Lindsay, would arrive that evening on the Mediterranean Express from Paris at 7 pm.  Le Chantecler was duly booked for dinner and the three met to discuss what they could do in the meantime: Phryne was to obtain a comprehensive list of hotel staff for the days preceding and on the day in question with a view to beginning interviews, after sending off a telegram to Mac.  Jack was to make his way through Lord Danby’s papers – from the death certificate to his legal proceedings and any other matters that could have disaffected anyone.  Harrison was on hand to type up lists of names, answer any queries and they hoped too that their searches may also prompt his memory to anything that may have occurred around that time.

Phryne met with the manager who provided her with lists of names – doormen, reception staff, concierges, chambermaids, waiters, barmen, chefs, sous-chefs, kitchen hands, room service staff and valets – she was careful to cover as wide a range as possible.  From there she asked about their shifts, their length of service, their experience, their status as permanent or temporary before narrowing down the list she wanted to interview.  The manager was patient in a rather French way of being patient with much attesting to the honesty, loyalty and commitment of the staff to their clientèle and the ‘ _igh regard in which ‘er late ‘usband was ‘eld, and ‘ow shocked and upset ‘e was, on be’alf of the owners, to any suggestion that the staff could ‘ave done anysing untoward._

“Nonetheless Monsieur Chauvin, I very much appreciate your cooperation in giving me the names and the details.  I will need to interview those I have marked, starting as soon as possible.  So if you could check their availability and arrange for them to come to my suite?  I would need no more than five or ten minutes initially.  Mr Harrison will be with me, or Inspector Robinson.  How many will need a translator?” 

“All our staff ‘ave some English Laddy Donbee,” he said with some pride.

“Excellent! As I have some French.” And with a charming smile and a knowing look she swept away from him, leaving a soupçon of perfume in her wake.

“Here are the staff names Harrison.  Any there any you recognise?  Can you type up the list for me? And take notes during the interviews?”

“I suppose I’d recognise their first names.  Most staff wore their first names on their badges but I’ll recognise them certainly.”

“I’ll just go and see Jack before we start.”

Jack was in Lord Danby’s suite sorting through what appeared to be piles of papers.  He had them classified by theme, paper work from the hotel including the medical documents, business-related documents and the legal proceedings. He had his elbow on the desk, forehead resting on one hand, with his brow furrowed, as he tried to see some connection, some hint that lay disguised, between papers, perpetrator and the peer.

He looked up and smiled as she came in and walked straight up to him, resting her hand on his shoulder as she looked over it, “Anything?”

“Not yet but very early days. What could a connection be? Is it his business, some disgruntled client or competitor, is it tied up in the legal matter, is there a French connection, is it social, I can’t say but there will be something. What about you?”

“I'm about to start the interviews. I’ll start with the male staff.  Can you do the chambermaids if I manage to get through the others?”

“In what sense?” he smirked.

“Now, now Jack, we are being serious-”

“For once.  Yes, let me know when you want me to turn on my masculine charm and I’ll come to your suite.”

“So full of promises, Detective Robinson,” she flounced out.

A stream of helpful but apparently innocent staff members presented themselves to Phryne with names like Claude Martin, Bernard Dubois, Jean-Phillipe Garcia, Michel Besson… The list read like a Mastering French text book or a football team.  They all knew “Lord Donbee” and had worked around the time but could account for their movements, and had others who could attest to the supervision of their movements, except  Jean-Phillipe Garcia who had been rostered to work there that day but had called in sick.  Harrison recognised two or three of them as providing room service or waiting at various times, although couldn't recall any of them providing service on the day in question.

Harrison had spent the day taking notes for Phryne at her interviews and responding to Jack’s queries in relation to the documents. It was late afternoon by the time they sat at the table on Phryne’s balcony, going through the evidence presented to her, while Jack reported on his review of Lord Danby’s papers; his interviews with the chambermaids would have to wait until the next day, just as Phryne would need to follow up with the manager as to who had replaced Jean-Philippe Garcia when he had been absent.  No-one had anything much to claim was advance, and the three sat around feeling rather stumped.

“Enough for today my dears.  Shall we go to a café for _un petit apéro_ before St John and our attaché arrive? I imagine they will put us through the ropes. They may be tiresome.  We may need to gird our loins in anticipation.”  Harrison had developed a familiarity with them both that was endearing.

“What a good idea.  The apéritif, not the tiresome meeting and the girding of loins.  Somewhere with a view of the water though please.  I am getting quite addicted to it.”

 


	28. Chapter 28

The five of them sat around the table at Le Chantecler and conversation was fairly strained.  With the addition of St John and the British attaché, Sir Reginald Lindsay, the level of discussion was formal and there was an air of mistrust or at least caution in everything that was said.

“It could after all be natural causes, couldn’t it?” asked Sir Reginald. “We are of course very happy to have this challenged, but is there evidence that we can take to the authorities?”

“Surely that Alexander was in good health, that there were no signs at all of illness should be enough,” put Phryne. “He looked after his fitness, he didn’t over-indulge, there was nothing to suggest any deterioration.”

“Although Father wasn’t young Phryne,” argued St John.

“And he wasn’t old!  Surely requesting a post-mortem would be reasonable?”

“You understand Lady Danby that we have managed to keep the press at bay about the funeral with statements about your being in Australia and awaiting your return, but there will be a lot of interest if there’s an autopsy and subsequent inquest.  The Embassy will assist in any way we can but we need to sure of our ground.”  Sir Reginald seemed less than enthusiastic about the role he was to play.

“We’ll be hounded you understand Phryne?” added St John.

“Hounded?  But surely if there is doubt it must be tested St John!”

The new Lord Danby wriggled uncomfortably in his seat and looked at Jack and then at Harrison before responding, “Perhaps we can talk about this after dinner.  I have to consider Isobel and the boys and what this could do to them.”

“You can speak freely St John.  Inspector Robinson is here to help and he is a colleague, as is Harrison surely, who knew your father so well.”

“I’d rather not thank you,” he dabbed delicately at his lips with his napkin.

Jack cleared his throat, “Um, I’ll leave you now and wish you a good evening.  You have personal matters you need to discuss.  Good night Lady Danby, Lord Danby, Sir Reginald.”

He headed off to the bar, where he was joined a short time later by Harrison.  Jack gave him a smile with his eyes, asked him what he wanted to drink and the two sat conspiratorially endeavouring to read St John’s comments and the attaché’s reticence.

 

* * *

 

Sir Reginald continued once the others had left the table, “Be very careful Lady Danby.  The Embassy will do its upmost to help resolve your concerns.  But you mustn’t feel that because you left your new husband to travel back to Australia, anything untoward could have happened in your absence.  You mustn’t allow your guilt to cloud your judgement.”

“Guilt?  I don’t feel guilt at all.  That’s not what this is about!  I don’t agree with sweeping things under the carpet.  It’s about justice for him!”

“Justice Lady Danby?  Perhaps you’ve spent far too much time with your detective colleague.”  He stood to taken his leave, “Good night.”

Phryne, flushed with indignation, turned to her late husband’s son, “You want to find out what happened don’t you?”

“Come Phryne, you must see that the sooner things are dealt with here the better?  I want my father buried, with dignity and with the respect he deserves, and at home.”

“I have no wish to deny him any of that.  It is absolutely what he deserves.  But not at the expense of covering up a suspicious death, surely?”

“I loved my father, very much, despite everything.  I know he would have been mortified to have his name dragged through the mud at this time. Especially if it is some project to expand your own interests.”

“And what would that be?”  Her voice was cold and without emotion, as if daring him to respond with what he meant.

“How would I know?  I have no idea what motivates you.  Why did you marry my father?  Not for love that’s certain and he undoubtedly didn’t marry you for that reason.  I know it all. What can you achieve in pursuing this apart from drawing attention to yourself and your wiles?”

 “Your father and I cared very much for one another, we understood each other and we looked after each other.”

But he wasn’t finished, “And as for that poor pathetic concession of a policeman you’ve dragged into this, shall I tell him of your amateur sleuthing, the fortune you inherited as a result of a sham marriage, the position of your parents – does he know what you have drawn him and the police force into, does he?”

“He is the epitome of professionalism.”

“Well, at least he’ll have had a holiday at someone else’s expense that I daresay he could never have afforded otherwise.”

“You’ve said quite enough.  I don’t care if you have no respect for me, but you are coming very close to disrespecting your father.  And you have no right at all to disparage an officer of the law whose only fault appears to be his income.”

“My dear Phryne, I saw the way he looked at you this evening, the way so many men look at you.  I saw it when you entertained for Father, the eyes that mooned, the mouths locked open, the appreciative stares, the whispers, and you returned them all.  Now you’ve got that policeman enthralled to do your bidding in a spurious homicide investigation.”

“Stop it St John,” Phryne flashed back, “you’re out of control. I will wish you a good night and hope a sound night’s sleep might bring your mind out of the gutter.”  She very deliberately picked up a delicately beaded evening purse and went to leave, then paused, “Or is this some kind of premeditated, elaborate distraction to mask something you would rather not be uncovered?” 

She found Harrison and Jack in the bar and flopped down beside them.

“What is it my dear Phryne?  You’re looking peeved. What can I order for you? A Mimosa?”  Harrison signalled to one of the bar staff.

“Lovely, thank you.  Why is it Harrison, that when you call me your dear Phryne, it is familiar and endearing, but when St John calls me his dear Phryne it is demeaning and patronising?”

“Tone, my dear, all in the tone,” he patted her on the knee.

“What happened?” asked Jack, “apart from Lord Danby being demeaning and patronising?”

“They both want us to drop any investigation and have the matter dealt with expediently, to avoid publicity and embarrassment.  The attaché thinks I’m suffering absent wife remorse and St John thinks I’m a frustrated private detective… oh and a tart.  And then I more or less accused him of being complicit in murder.”

“But apart from that it went well?” Jack looked it her with a slight raising of his eyebrows, and held up his glass to hers in cheers.


	29. Chapter 29

Jack, Phryne and Harrison sat in a café opposite the promenade after an early-morning walk attempting to put together a plan of action.  They had the chambermaids to interview, and a follow up on the replacement staff member, and there were the remaining papers in Lord Danby’s study to examine.  But of primary importance was to request the post-mortem of local authorities, so endeavouring to convince the attaché seemed to be their best bet.  If he could be brought around to seeing this as responsible and diplomatically appropriate, he could put pressure on St John Danby to agree.  Phryne believed she was already persona non-gratia in Sir Reginald’s eyes having been classified as a member of the weaker sex, and Harrison felt he was better keeping well out of it. It was left to Jack to negotiate a solution – that the two government representatives collaborate on a solution seemed apt. 

“Sir Reginald, I think we need to have a word.”

“Inspector?”

“The Embassy in Canberra is keen to work with the British government on this matter to ensure that we have a satisfactory outcome.  I will need to send in a report on progress now that you are here.”

“Hmm.  And what would you suggest?”

“I would suggest that we request an autopsy and as quickly and quietly as possible, so that everyone’s minds can be put at ease.  If the autopsy reveals nothing of concern, we can assist the family to make arrangements for the funeral and all that will entail.  If the autopsy confirms the suggestion that there has been foul play, we should assist the police with their inquiries to ensure that a criminal who has brought down an eminent British peer is brought to justice.”

“But that could be messy and hence awkward for the family.”

“Only if there is a miscarriage of justice.  Unless there is something that you suspect that you haven’t mentioned?  Is there a concern you have?  Some embarrassment, some secret you want concealed?  By you, I mean the British government of course.  Is there something else Canberra should know?”  Jack was at once diplomatic and immovable.

“No, no, nothing of the kind.  Only thinking of the family and how much they want to lay their father and grandfather to rest, as do friends, all his associates, businessmen, fellow peers.  There are many honourable and reputable people who will want to pay their respects.”

“So we owe it to all of them to conduct matters in a way that is beyond reproach.  So that there never will be any recriminations, no suggestion that we were derelict, but that we represented a peer of the realm appropriately.  I would hate to report to my superiors that they sent me on a fool’s errand.”

He looked at Jack who was standing firmly, one hand on his hip, looking Sir Reginald directly in the eye. The attaché shifted from one foot to the other, looked at his watch, adjusted his collar, as if he were identifying more important things he had to do, “Very well, I’ll put it to Lord Danby that he agree to the post-mortem.  But I will be relying on you Inspector to ensure that if there is anything that requires further investigation that it be done quickly, quietly and without attention from the media.  I’ll hold you personally responsible should there be any adverse publicity.”

“I’m sure you will,” muttered Jack under his breath as he hurried up to the suite to break the news to the team.

“Well done Jack.  But look at this telegram from Mac first.”

Jack read it aloud, _“Intense fatigue appearance inebriation could be poison stop check liquids stop check breathlessness prior stop any nausea stop any discolouration stop._ Was there breathlessness Harrison, or did Lord Danby complain of feeling nauseous that you can recall?”

“No but what I thought was inebriation could have been nausea perhaps?  I don’t recall breathlessness but he was so tired … perhaps.”

Jack took the cup of tea proffered by Harrison and sat down to plan the rest of the day.  If they could get to the police with the autopsy request and have them intervene with the pathologists at the morgue would be far easier than their own channels.  Then there were the chambermaids to interview and then more of Lord Danby’s paperwork to go through.  But he had the distinct feeling that things were starting to move ahead.  Within a few minutes Phryne returned to the suite having secured the necessary co-signature.

“He sulked furiously and glared and was self-important.”

“I’ll seek out Sir Reginald straight away.  Will you come too?”

“Of course although you’ll need to hold me back from attacking that ghastly attaché.  You will have to be the one to keep him onside, as I’ll be incapable of being polite.”

“We’ll go to the contact in the police, the _police judiciaire_ ; we’ll have to see if the doctor who issued the death certificate is available, then make an appointment at the morgue to talk to the pathologist, and get a timeline for the autopsy, talk about the symptoms you noticed Harrison, ensure his clothes and the glass are tested, mention the suggestion of poison.  How long before you can be ready?”

 

* * *

 

Jack shook hands with the representative of the _police judiciaire,_ assigned to assist _les Anglais_ and who simply looked bemused at the concept of a Detective Inspector Robinson from  _le pays des kangourous_  and could see no purpose in the widow being there at all and ignored Phryne altogether. However, he seemed to overcome his aversion to the task and invited them with Sir Reginald and the English doctor who attended the hotel that night, to be driven to the morgue, and to instruct the pathologist.

Sir Reginald was at his most pompous and began a convoluted expression of sentiment that no-one understood, with a longwinded speech to the effect that this matter deserved their immediate and unwavering attention with a satisfactory outcome and much mention of obligation, sensitivity and discretion. 

Phryne sensed that a little less arrogance and a little more restrained charm might be de rigueur, which might give rise to some patriotic pride, and looking delicately through her black lace veil at the policeman,

“Monsieur, I am at a loss to describe my anxiety and distress at my late husband’s death.  I know this is of little consequence to you and must be such an intrusion on your time and care for your own citizens to have to consider this request from us. I was far away at the time which only serves to make me more concerned about the circumstances.  And I have heard such valuable reports of the thoroughness of the police judiciaire and the pathologists here – your work is so highly regarded, I would be greatly comforted by knowing you would help us.”

It seemed to have the desired effect and the off-hand look and eye-rolling became a more sympathetic look of empathy and modesty in his department’s practices.

“Bien sure Madame.  We will ‘elp you if we can.”

Jack then appealed to the doctor who had been on the scene to report on what they knew.  A local Englishman who had served the expatriate community on the Cote D’Azur for many years, he seemed to have some knowledge of procedures and the status of the representatives in the room, and knew how to present their case, with a modicum of embarrassment at his initial prognosis. He felt the need to justify to everyone that what appeared to have been an innocent death of a man of a certain age needed confirmation, and that a forensic examination would now be required.  He suggested that the stomach contents and liver be examined as well as blood tests and the clothes and glass from the suite  - _le poison, matières toxiques_ were thrown around with much nodding of heads, shaking of heads, gesticulating, note-taking, and eventually form-filling and signing.

«  _Aussitôt que possible messieurs-dame… rassurez-vous… un cas d’urgence_ … », the pathologist assured the gathered group that he would treat the autopsy as a priority and that his findings would be available in the very near future.

They settled into the taxi back to the hotel, and Jack made sure he was appropriately deferent to Sir Reginald thanking him for his attention to the matter and commenting on how positively the French authorities had responded to his urgings.  So convincing was the Inspector that the attaché was left with the strong impression that his own intervention had avoided a possible diplomatic crisis.  Phryne rolled her eyes heavenward and sank back in her seat to enjoy the views.


	30. Chapter 30

Phryne had lined up the two chambermaids for Jack to interrogate as soon as they returned, “I’ve said I’ll have tea with St John.  There are those bridges to repair.  And I’ll track down the missing employee, the casual on room service. Lunch on the balcony?”

He found two women in conservative black dresses with white aprons waiting in the foyer outside her suite, one tall and slender with a hard face and the world-weary look of one who had had enough of her lot, the other petite and round, with jet-black hair, and smiling.  He interviewed Mlle Girard  first, feeling he would like to get the jaded one out of the way as the longer he kept her waiting the more difficult she may be to question, and he was cautious of the potential Gallic shrug in lieu of any response. 

It turned out that Mlle Girard with the name badge Marie-Louise had only cleaned the suite once a week during Lord Danby’s stay, on the days that her colleague was off.  She described the routine she followed in broken English with much gesturing and gesticulating to represent sweeping, polishing, making the bed, folding towels, tidying.

“And how long did this take you Mlle Girard?”

“One hour,” she held up her thumb in indication of the one.

“Did you notice anything at all unusual in the suite?  Rien d’anormal ? ”

“Non, non, rien du tout. Exactement comme les autres. ”

“Just like the others.  Nothing at all?”

“Non.”

“And how long have you worked here in this hotel? Depuis quand travaillez-vous ici?”

« Depuis le commencement, avant la guerre monsieur.  1913.”

“Since the hotel opened?  You know it well then.”

“Oui, very well, this like my own home this hotel.”

“Merci Mlle Girard.”

“Monsieur.”

He then began the same questions of Rozenn who had waited for her turn.

“How do you spell your surname? Votre nom de famille?”

She attempted to spell it out but her knowledge of the English pronunciation of the alphabet and Jack’s understanding of the French lead to much amusement between them until she took his notepad and wrote it down:  C-A-I-L-L-I-B-O-T-T-E.

“Caillibotte, is that a French name? And your first name Rozenn?  Are you from around here?”

“Non, from Bretagne.  I am bretonne. Is Breton name.  Rozenn mean rose.”

“Oh, Rose, yes, yes, very pretty name. From Brittany, in the west?”

“Oui.  You know it?”

“No, I don’t. How long have you worked here?  Depuis quand travaillez-vous ici à l’hôtel ?”

“You speak French? Very good, just not alphabet. I work here two years.  Deux ans.”

“And you cleaned Lord Danby’s rooms every day except Mondays.  Is that right?”

“Yes.  Monday is free for me.”

“Your day off? And you colleague Mlle Girard cleans your floor on Mondays.”

“Oui. She clean my floor Mondays.  I clean her floor Saturday, her day off.”

“And how long does it take to clean this suite?”

“Maybe one hour. Clean everything, bedroom, bathroom, salon, balcon”, she repeated the same cleaning process as the other, and offering nothing that could be queried.

“Is his suite the same as the others on the floor?”

“His have the balcon. But rooms the same.  He work so he have many papers.”

“You tidied his papers?”

She looked instantly apprehensive, “No I not touch papers.  Not touch anything that belong to guests.  Most guests not do work, just holiday.  Monsieur has much work. I just clean and tidy.  Put papers on table.”

“When did you clean his suite?  At what time of the day?”

“Always after lunch.  He work in the morning.”

“Did you notice anything unusual at all? Rien d’anormal, d’étrange, de différent?”

« Non, rien.  Pourquoi ? »

“Just routine questions mademoiselle.  La routine.”

« Non, mais… »

“What is it mademoiselle?  Something you noticed?”

“Juste…always someone else always sleeping in his bed but I don’t know who.  Maybe different one all the time.  But I not see anything. His wife, the lady, is not here then. The very beautiful one here now.  You know her. Maybe he have someone else? Many men like company when their wife is away, non? Many men have someone sleep with him, non?  You have wife Monsieur L’Inspecteur?” she looked at him invitingly.

Jack cleared his throat, and showed her out of the room, “Thank you, merci mademoiselle.” 

 

* * *

 

Lunch on the balcony called and a chance to catch up on the morning’s visits and meetings with Harrison.

Jack told them both of the interviews with the chambermaids that left little to progress.  He tactfully avoided the accusation of the extra in Lord Danby’s bed and the subsequent proposition.

 “And the replacement for the absent room service staff member?” he asked Phryne.

“Yes, Jean-Phillipe Garcia rang in sick at the last moment and was replaced by a casual who is irregular.  Here’s the name,” she handed him a piece of paper.

“Yannick Caillibotte. I just interviewed his wife then, one of the chambermaids.  Name can’t be a coincidence surely.  We should chase that up. Although that would not be uncommon I suppose to have family members working here.” 

At that point one of the service staff arrived with their lunch.  He placed a bottle of wine, plates, napkins, glasses and cutlery onto the balcony table and a large basket with round rolls.

“Voilà, le pan bagnat, messieurs-dame, une spécialité de la région. »

“It’s a salade niçoise on a roll basically,” Harrison explained.

The waiter opened the bottle and began pouring the wine into their glasses, and Phryne spoke to him, “Do you know Yannick Caillibotte, someone who helps out casually sometimes?”

“Le Breton? Yes I know him.  His sister work here.  He come sometimes, yes.”

“Oh, so they are brother and sister. Regularly, he works regularly?”

“Non, not too much.  His daughter very sick, so he work only sometimes.  Just I think when his sister, Rozenn, mind his daughter for him.  Like sometimes in the evening or night time.  Rozenn she work daytime. ”

“Is Rozenn a good worker, and Yannick?”

“Rozenn, yes, she work here and she very good worker.  Yannick, I not know him very well.  I don’t know.  You speak with Monsieur Chauvin, he say about le Breton.”

“Cheers then my dears,” Harrison held up his glass. “We have the interviews more or less finished and now await the autopsy. Bon appétit! … Although I’m not sure I should have mentioned such things all in the same breath.”

They were left to contemplate how to tackle the rolls of crusty white bread filled to overflowing with salad vegetables and tuna and olives and hard-boiled eggs. Phryne held her roll with both hands and as she bit into it, trickles of olive oil in which the sandwich was swimming ran down from her lips and onto her chin, and from her hand down her arm.  She paused to attempt to deal with it, her mouth full, still holding her pan bagnat, endeavouring to find a way to extricate herself from drips and drizzle; but Jack had already seen and leaned over to her face and gently dabbed at it with his napkin, then took her arm and wiped it clean, a momentary silence, a brief encounter of eyes, then, as if embarrassed by the haste of his gesture, cleared his throat, put his napkin back onto his lap, and said,

“I’ll go back to the paperwork but I had better telegraph a report back to Russell Street now that the autopsy has been confirmed and one to the embassy.”

 “Anything for me to do?” asked Harrison, not unaware of the fleeting intimacy he had seen take place between Lady Danby and the Inspector.

“Choose a nice spot for dinner?”

“How about I look after your wardrobe Phryne?  You have no-one here to assist you.  I’m quite adept at that kind of thing you know.  I’ll arrange for laundry and press up something for tonight shall I?  It would give me something to do.  Now what about you Inspector?  I’m told I’m a dab hand at men’s shirts.”

“I don’t think that will be-”

“Nonsense Jack.  Be spoiled for once in your life.”

“Well I am feeling rather spoiled just being here actually.”

“Good that’s all settled then,” said Harrison and the three sat back in their chairs, feeling warm from the sun and the wine, cheered by the view and the company, and a sense of achievement in advancing the case.


	31. Chapter 31

“Monsieur Chauvin?  I’m sorry to trouble you again.  May I speak to you just about a couple more matters in relation to the staff?”

“But of course Laddy Donbee, of course. Please sit down,” Monsieur Chauvin’s gesticulation was exaggerated but sincere.  “What can I do for you?”

“The night Lord Danby died, you had a casual member of staff on room service duty.  A Monsieur Caillibotte?”

“Yes, yes we did.  ‘e comes sometime when we are short-staffed.  Maybe someone was sick that night.”

“Yes, Jean-Phillipe Garcia was to be on, but his shift was taken by Yannick.  I was advised earlier.  Can you tell me about this casual worker, can I speak with him?”

“Yes but ‘e is not ‘ere today.  ‘e only comes sometimes and only evenings or night time.  ‘e has a sister who work ‘ere; I give you ‘er name already.”

“Mademoiselle Caillibotte has been interviewed yes, but one of your waiters mentioned that she assists her brother with babysitting to allow him to work.”

“It is a sad case, I do not know all the detail.  ‘e just come ‘ere to the south of France a few month ago because his sister ‘ere.  ‘is wife die and ‘e ‘ave a little girl who is, um, er, ‘ow you say in English, handicapée, une maladie?  So he sometime work ‘ere when ‘is sister can mind the little girl.”

“Poor man. How did his wife die?”

“I do not know but he come ‘ere to be near his sister. I do not know when ‘e will work ‘ere again but I can give you ’is address.”

“Thank you Monsieur Chauvin.  That would be helpful. All your staff have been very helpful.”

Phryne took the address written out for her by M Chauvin and went up to her suite where she found Harrison Johnson with her wardrobe spread out on the bed, classified by colour and style, an iron heated and in hand.

“What a frightful mess my dear.  I was tempted to send for Lundy to come and assist.”

“Don’t you dare, but we have been in the rather cramped confines of an aeroplane for weeks, and you know that I was never very good at that kind of attention to detail.”

“Not very good or didn’t care?  For one who is so meticulous in her appearance…  And I’ll be on to your charming inspector’s wardrobe next.”

“Yes, he is rather charming isn’t he?  Do you like him?”

“I do my dear, very much.  And he suits you so well.  Not sure that many men could ever have your measure, but he does, and you need that. “

“Where is he?  In Alexander’s suite?”

“No, he’s gone to the post office to telegraph those reports. Now what are you about? You can’t stay in here, not until I’ve finished unless you want to use the balcony?”

“No, I’m going out.  I have the address of Yannick Caillibotte, the casual on room service duty that night. He’s not likely to be in again for a while so I shall go to his place and interview him there.  He cares for a sick or disabled child so is likely to be home.  I’ll take a taxi as I gather it is a fair way away, one of the outer suburbs.  As he appears to be one of the last to see Alexander alive, I think it will be worth the effort.  Tell Jack that I’ll see you both later.”

 

* * *

 

Jack went to the suite to find Phryne and found instead Harrison where Phryne had left him, and Jack embarrassed but obligingly allowed Harrison the key to his room to carry on with his wardrobe and laundry once he had finished with dear Phryne’s with a promise to bring Jack a much needed cup of tea.

“I’ll go back to Danby’s suite and carry on with sifting through the paperwork.  I’ll probably be there when she gets back from seeing the brother.”

He sat at the desk and looked at his notes, then took the file he had classified as the court case. There were multiple documents relating to all aspects of the accident, investigation, and legal proceedings.  Some of the documents were just as difficult to understand in English as they were in French.  There were engineer’s reports of the scene, analyses of the components of the railway tracks, tests of the quality of the steel, lawyers demands and counter-demands, press articles, minutes of meetings. 

When Harrison came in with his tea he asked him some of the details he hadn’t understood, before Harrison interrupted,

“And there was a phone call for you, from the police.  Could you ring them back?”

A difficult phone call then ensued with a complicated question and answer in franglais with the preliminary findings of the autopsy,

“ _Barbiturique_ _? …Sédatif_?... Yes… Yes I understand… So the amount was _toxique_ , _oui_ , yes… Administered how, _comment_? … You don’t know yet… Thank you.  _Merci monsieur l’agent.”_

Jack paced up and down for a while, how could a lethal dose of a barbiturate have been administered – crushed in salt form and served as part of a meal?  Dissolved in a liquid?  He remembered the telegram from Dr MacMillan in which she asked them to check liquids.  Could it have been the whiskey glass?

He rang back the police officer and asked whether the glass had been tested for _traces toxiques_.

“Not yet? …  D’accord, merci encore monsieur.”

He was relieved that the preliminary findings at least had justified the investigation.  He rang through to Sir Reginald’s room and told him of the early report. He was monosyllabic in his response.  Jack wished Phryne was back to tell Harrison with him, but he couldn’t delay it and went to his room where he was busily ironing his shirts.

“I have some news.  Early news. Sad news. The police wanted to confirm a finding of a lethal dose of a barbiturate. So you were absolutely right Harrison.  We don’t know any more at this stage.”  Harrison put the iron down calmly and sat in the only armchair and put his face in his hands.  Jack looked around not quite sure what to do.

“I’m sorry,” he put his hand on his shoulder, “very sorry.  Could you please stop ironing my shirts now?  Why don’t you come back to the suite where I’m working on the papers?  You could help me with queries as I go along.  You’d be better off with some company I think.”

The older man shook his head, “I don’t want to be there. Not surrounded by his things. I need something to do. Let me stay here for a while. I’ll come up in a little while. Just leave me now. Thank you.”

Jack went back to the suite and the papers and kept checking his watch wondering when Phryne would be back.  He was convinced now more than ever that the paperwork must provide the link.  He waded through more reams of legal documents of the train accident, French with English annotations, English with French annotations.  Nothing.  He opened a new folder that contained the newspaper cuttings of the accident, images of the carnage, commentary on the events, reports of the victims – deaths and injuries.  He turned over the page to a list of names – the dead and injured by name, with notes. At once his blood ran cold:

Madame Marie-Paule Caillibotte, 35 ans – décédée (1)

Annick Caillibotte, 5 ans -  blessée (2)

“Oh my God, ... Phryne!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) 35 years old, deceased  
> (2) 5 years old, injured


	32. Chapter 32

Nice, as the epicentre of the Côte D’Azur ex-patriate crowd, had everything the local English and Nicoise press could want.  The area once the quiet enclave that allowed European royalty and British aristocrats diversion from cold northern winters now a enjoyed reputation for scandalous events hosted by American film-directors, writers and newspaper moguls who had escaped Prohibition in their own country and established a community of like-minded, wealthy, eccentrics. Sara and Gerald Murphy, Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald, Frank Jay Gould and his wife, Florence, Hemingway and Dorothy Parker had moved Nice and surrounds from a sedate reserve in the winter months to a year-round shocking and dazzling parade of extravagant lifestyles, lavish fêtes and outrageous antics, which had continued despite the crash.  Artists like Cocteau, Picasso and Man Ray were frequent invitees to the events. Both local and English newspapers were always ready for gossip and scandal and the latest news of the English peer’s death in his hotel bed at the Negresco with his glamorous new wife returning from Australia, was a story that required coverage.

Photographers had been circling the entrance of the hotel all day, kept at bay by the vigilant doormen, since the news had seeped through to them that morning that the dazzling widow had requested an autopsy with the assistance of a British Embassy attaché from Paris. That she had arrived by plane from Australia and that the son and heir who was much of her age had now returned too, made for tantalising copy.  They were hoping for a glimpse of the reported beauty and a photograph opportunity should one present itself, let alone a few _bons mots_ thrown their way.

Phryne had dressed as soberly as a woman of her style and élan could for her trip out. Over a black crepe cowl-neck top and raw silk skirt, she wore a black silk coat, bordered with black velvet ribbon, heavily embroidered with blue hyacinths and cornflowers.  Her back straw beret was adorned with a pompom of blue feathers, and she carried her frilled black umbrella.  Her round dark glasses ensured not only protection from glare, but privacy, and, she thought, a degree of anonymity for a solo excursion.  One of the doormen accompanied her to a waiting taxi, to whom he was to give the address, but the trip from the hotel entrance to the taxi provided enough space and time for the photographers to procure a snap and the request for a comment. She immediately found herself surrounded and barraged, “This way if you would Lady Danby! … where are you going?  …What have you to say about…?What news Lady Danby? …Is Lady Isobel Danby here too or are you and Lord Danby …? Lady Danby…news…suspicious… death…what have you got to say…?

Rather than being in the least intimidated by the flock of circling press, she turned and spoke, “Thank you so much for your concern. We are all so anxious about having this matter resolved.  It is very distressing for the family not to be able to lay Lord Danby to rest.  We will be issuing a statement as soon as we hear anything at all.”

She turned and paused, just momentarily, as she got into the taxi, and cameras flashed wildly and repeatedly around the vehicle before the gaggle retreated, satisfied that their long wait had earned them copy.

The driver looked at her through his rear-vision mirror, wondering which celebrity he may be carrying.  Phryne noticed the look and asked,

 “C’est loin?  Is it far?”

“Oui, c’est la banlieue.” He gesticulated with his hand and pointed to the north-east, that they were going out of town.

“Oh, d’accord, the outer suburbs.”  She looked out of the window ready to see some parts of Nice that she wouldn’t normally have visited.

“Américaine?” the driver queried.

“Non, australienne.”

“Alors, ça c’est loin! Bateau?  Boat?”

“No, plane, avion.  Eleven days…Onze jours de route en avion. ” 

“Onze jours. Oh-là… Et vous êtes actrice?  Actrice de cinéma mademoiselle?”

Phryne shook her head, not wishing to engage further and looked resolutely out of the window.  She realised it was the first time she had been alone for such a long time, the months of being Lady Danby, the weeks and weeks of travel, and now this case – they had taken their toll on her fiercely-protected independence and time to be on her own to do what she wished.

She wondered when would be the earliest they would hear about the autopsy, what they would do next once they had confirmed, undoubtedly in her own mind, murder.  She mused about possible suspects – always suspect those nearest and dearest.  Could it be St John, could he have wanted his father out of the way, could he be so resentful of and revolted by his father’s preferences that he arranged a way for him to depart?  Could he be trying to set up Harrison, to discredit him?  Was there someone else?

She trusted Jack with the paperwork.  He was so good at that kind of thing, making his way through piles of documents punctiliously, whereas she had so little temper for it.  She then thought about words she might use at the visit that lay ahead, words of compassion for the little girl, expressing sympathy for his recent bereavement, perhaps suggesting that as grieving widow and widower that they had something in common.  Now how do you say ‘widow’ and ‘widower’ in French she wondered?  Of course veuve as in _Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin_ , the first woman, a widow, la veuve Clicquot, to run a champagne house, “and it so happens to be my favourite champagne…” she mused.

The busy streets of the Nice township with its wide avenues, galleries of shops, cafes, restaurants and neo-classical buildings had given way to hills set with Belle-Epoque villas,many with individual decorative elements: ceramics and mosaics, frescos and friezes, ornamental stucco work, cupolas, ornate ironwork, figureheads, garlands and grotesques, surrounded by exotic gardens with budding almond and mimosa trees and orange groves.  But these too were left behind as they continued further north to an area far from the sea and in such contrast that Phryne wondered whether they were still in Nice.  “What a way he has to travel to work,” she thought. The taxi had become one of few vehicles weaving around the ever-narrowing, winding streets and alleyways, densely bordered by a concentration of small, terraced houses leaning together with stone facades, in ramshackle configuration, paint peeling from the walls with strings of washing linking neighbours; a confusion of entrances and steep steps filled with men and women and children sitting in dark doorways staring at the rare sight of a taxi.

“Voilà mademoiselle, on est presque là.   We are here.”

“Which is the house?”

The taxi driver shrugged, “Il faut demander. You ask,” pointing to a group of locals. “Deux cents francs mademoiselle.” He held up a thumb and forefinger to represent two.

“Two hundred francs?”  She raised an eyebrow and handed over one hundred and fifty francs. “Vous restez ici?  You will wait for me for fifteen minutes and I will give you the other fifty francs, then another two hundred for the trip back – pour le retour.”

She got out of the taxi and adjusted her coat, holding the address firmly, and as she went to cross to the group, she turned to see the driver reversing down the alleyway and disappearing out of sight.

“Bonjour! Vous connaissez l’adresse? 32 Rue Saint-Dominique,” she held out the piece of paper with Yannick Caillibotte’s details.

They pointed down the street and to the right, with much nudging of one another and squinting up at her, and Phryne endeavoured to walk calmly and quickly down the cobbled roadway, her heels slipping in the cracks and uneven paving.  After several seemingly wrong turns she found a blue and white sign with what appeared to be the remnants of a street sign,  -minique, and headed down to a house with the number 32.

She knocked on the door several times before a man with leathery sun-tanned skin in what must have been once a white singlet opened it, and looked at her,

“Monsieur Caillibotte?”

He indicated with a nod of his head up a stairwell and disappeared back into a room off the hallway and shut the door.  She climbed the wooden staircase, the walls dark and scarred, until she came to a landing and another door.  On the landing stood a make-shift child’s carriage. Muffled noises came from within and Phryne started feeling a tinge of discomfort as she took a breath and knocked.

A man with a shock of black shiny hair and several days growth around his face confronted her and immediately took a step back at the sight of her,

“Monsieur Caillibotte?”

“Oui.”

“Vous parlez anglais?”

“Yes, a little. Vous êtes qui ?  Who are you?” 

“I am –,“  she faltered for the merest split second, “I am Phryne.  I believe you work occasionally at the hotel where I am staying?  Le Negresco?”

He nodded, his eyes hooded, the bags under them indicating little sleep.

“May I come in?”

He stood back, looking at her keenly as she entered what was little more than a large, bare room with a bed in one corner, a table and two chairs in another and make-shift kitchen facilities in another. It looked miserable, temporary, as if no-one actually lived there. In the centre on a coach lay the figure of a child, her face staring at the ceiling, her mouth open, tongue loosely protruding and resting on her lower lip.

He pulled one of the chairs from the kitchen table and offered it to her but remained standing himself.

“Your little girl, I have heard she is unwell.  You have to look after her.  That must be very difficult.”

He stared at her, not knowing how to respond and bewildered as to her intent.

“Yes,” he responded simply.

“You worked in the hotel two weeks ago, a Monday evening?”

He nodded.

“You do room service I believe?”

“Yes, and sometime kitchen or bar.”

“That night, you took some drinks to a suite, drinks for two gentlemen. A glass of whiskey and a hot chocolate.  Do you remember that?”

His eyes darkened and he frowned, “I take many sings for room service, every night.  I don’t know.  Maybe.”  He looked away.

“It is very important that you try and remember.”

“Why, why is so important?  I have many important sings.  More important than drinks.”  He looked over at the figure lying on the chair.

“Of course.  But it is just that, that night, you took a drink to my husband’s room, a glass of whiskey, and later that night he died.  So you may be one of the last people to see him alive.  I am a widow now, je suis veuve.”

He gaped at her and ran his fingers through his hair, and began pacing around the room. Phryne sensed that he knew something, that his agitation was more than merely her presence, and she could see the entire journey risked miscarriage if she could not engage him.

“What is it?  What is the matter?  Do you remember anything? Anything at all?”

“No, I remember nothing.  Please go now.  I must give medicine to my daughter.”  He walked over to the corner with a sink.

 “Did you know Lord Danby died that evening?”

“Yes, everybody know.  I did not know you were asking about this man.”

“But you don’t recall anything still?  You saw him, you served him a drink and one for his secretary, you knew he died soon after that, but still you recall nothing?”

“Maybe I was not the last one.  Maybe he have someone else there with him that night.”

“What do you mean?  You saw someone else there, in his room, or going into his room? Other than Mr Johnson, his secretary?”

“No, Rozenn say, my sister say to me maybe someone else there with him.  She clean his room and say he always have someone else sleeping there.  You his wife, maybe you don’t know this.”  He said this partially turned away from her, without making any eye contact.

Phryne knew that she must act as any wife would, without revealing that of course she knew that Harrison would have slept there, he had said so himself.

“I find that hard to believe.  We have only been married a few months.”

“You go away from him.  Maybe he find someone else.  Maybe she kill him.”

“You think someone _killed_ him Monsieur Caillibotte?” Phryne looked at him squarely, keenly.  This man definitely knew more than he was letting on.  Was it his sister perhaps who needed to be interrogated again?

“No, I don’t know.  How I know these things?”

Phryne needed another tack, “Tell me about your daughter.  She is ill?”

“She was in an accident and she hurt her …”, he tapped his head.

“Head?  She has a brain injury from the accident?  Was it the same accident where your wife was killed?  You have my very sincere condolences.”

He stared back at her in disbelief, “How you know this?”

“M Chauvin mentioned it, or perhaps it was some of the other workers in the hotel.  I was trying to locate you and some of your colleagues mentioned you could only work casually, when your sister, Rozenn, could mind your daughter.”

The girl who hadn’t moved since Phryne’s arrival started making noises and moving her arms around.  Her father went over to her as the cries became louder and the movements of her arms became more agitated and flailing.

“I need to get her medicine.”

“May I help?”  Phryne got up and went over to the father and daughter.

“No. I will get it.”

“What is her name?”

“Annick.  A Breton name.  I am Yannick.  Her mother like her to ‘ave a name like mine.”

“Annick,” Phryne repeated and girl seemed to fix her momentarily with the faintest of smiles. She remained near her while her father went over to the area where there was the semblance of a kitchen – effectively a cupboard with a gas ring on top and a small pile of dishes in a sink beside the cupboard.

“You want coffee?” the man asked suddenly.

“Yes, thank you.”  She didn’t want a coffee at all but felt accepting such an invitation might at least allow her more time to talk through what had happened that night.  She watched him as he measured liquid from a medicine bottle and poured it into a cup.  He then placed several sugar cubes in the cup and added some water and began mixing it. He then filled a full syringe with liquid directly from the medicine bottle. All the while the girl’s cries and thrashing of arms became increasingly violent and she started gasping and convulsing. Phryne attempted to soothe her by touching her arms and looking into her eyes and hushing her, repeating her name.

“What is the medicine for?  How does it help?”

“I can’t explain in English.  It relax her, and it help the brain to…” he indicated with both hands something large getting smaller.

“It reduces swelling and helps the convulsions?”

He nodded as he walked over and Phryne stood back as he grabbed the girl with both arms and put the cup to her lips.  She strained away from it but her father held firm until she drank it down.  He embraced her some minutes after she had finished drinking until the spasms appeared to subside and rocked her to and fro.  He relaxed too and gently put her back down on the sofa.

“Allez Annick, ça va maintenant.”  He kissed the top of her head and again she appeared to smile.

“What was the syringe for?  Does she need it intravenously too?”  She indicated with her fingers the movement of a plunger into the barrel.

“No, only if she not take from the cup.”  He looked uncomfortable and turned away.

“You put the sugar in her medicine to mask the taste?”  Phryne was desperate to keep conversation going and was deeply affected by the scene she was witnessing.

“Now I get your coffee.”

Phryne followed him over to where he had begun preparation, putting ground coffee in the top of a cafetière, filling the base with water, and setting it onto the gas ring.

“Did you come here to be near your sister?  To be near Rozenn?”

“She tell me to come here.”

“Do you not have other family closer to home? In Brittany?”

“Yes, but Rozenn say to come here.  Good weather, more work here than Bretagne.  But not enough work.  I will go back now. Go back with Annick.”

“It is hard for you to work when you must look after your daughter all the time.  And Rozenn works every day.  And it must take you a while to get to work.  Is there a bus?”

“Yes a bus. Take about one hour. I cannot stay.  I will go back to Finistère, to my home in Bretagne. I will look after ‘er there.”

Phryne looked around the room, looked at the area for preparation, looked at the medicine bottle that he had just used to prepare his daughter’s draught.  It was a pitiable situation.  The curtains hung in ribbons across cracked window panes, the walls were stained with rising damp, cracked and peeling, the floorboards were bare and damaged and creaked and gave as she walked across the room, with a couple of threadbare rugs placed strategically,  minimal furniture and no personal items, nothing at all to resemble a home. Clearly he lived in poverty with his disabled daughter; no wonder he had decided that he would be better off back nearer other family.

He watched her as she examined the things he was using to prepare their coffee, “Sit down, I bring you coffee.”

Phryne obediently returned to the seat on the other side of the room.  “What was the accident?  The one that killed your wife and injured your daughter?”  Phryne looked over to him, his back to her as he got coffee cups from the sink, the packet of sugar cubes from where he had used them to sweeten his daughter’s medicine.

“Train.”

She looked over to him as he stirred the sugar cubes into her coffee and froze in horror.


	33. Chapter 33

Jack rang his room and got Harrison to come up immediately.  He then rang the police again and tried to make himself clear that they needed to come and collect him straightaway, that Lady Danby was in great danger in the company of a man who was highly likely to have been the administrator of the lethal dose of barbiturate.

Harrison had been sent to find Monsieur Chauvin to obtain the address of Yannick Caillibotte, and to ensure that Rozenn was detained at work, at least temporarily.  Meanwhile Jack collected the relevant files and put them into a folder to show to the _police judiciaire_ as soon as they arrived.  He hesitated about ringing the attaché and thought better of it and rang his room number.  No answer.  “Excellent,” thought Jack, “I’ll leave him a message with the concierge.”

He hastened down to the foyer where Harrison waited with a highly agitated M Chauvin who was ringing his hands and professing his anguish at his staff being the source of further investigation.  The photographers and journalists who had remained outside waiting for Lady Danby’s return had got wind that something was afoot and had begun milling around in anticipation.

Two shiny black Citroens arrived, and an Inspector Brassard got out of the first, together with the policeman from that morning, and Jack shook their hands.  They sat briefly in the foyer as Jack explained what he knew, handing over his dossier.  The police nodded, took out maps of the banlieue where “le Breton” lived, and consulted watches. “Allez, on y va,” commanded the French Inspector,  and two uniformed police headed off with Monsieur Chauvin presumably to question Mlle Caillibotte, while Jack followed the Inspector out to the first car, the senior policeman waving off the journalists and photographers unceremoniously.

 

* * *

 

 “The train accident in norther France?  The one where my late husband’s company is accused of causing the damage to the railway?”

“Here you drink.  I take Annick outside for a walk soon.  But you drink first, then you go.”

Phryne made to drink the first sip and smelt the bitterness.  She placed the cup on the floor beside her and as she did so looked around the room for somewhere where she could dispose of its contents.

“The accident, you know that it wasn’t the steel of the railway.  You know that it was the signage, the gauges weren’t changed correctly; there was a party that night, that many people drank too much and were derelict in their duties.  It was human error that caused the accident which many people want covered up.  Important people in the company with connections to government.”

“You not like your coffee I make for you?  You drink it please.  I need to take Annick outside for a walk.”  He went over to where a suitcase lay next to the bed and put some items in it.  She noticed he put the cap on the syringe and placed it into his pocket.

Phryne sensed that he intended to disappear once she’d drunk the coffee, and either leave her there once whatever it was he had put in the coffee took effect, or insist she leave so that she’d be found unconscious, or worse, lifeless, in a nearby ditch or doorway.  And the syringe, whatever it was, as a last means of defence.

“I get her into the stroller.  Drink your coffee.”  He was firm and aggressive, and stood over her. She bent down and picked up the cup, noticing the cracks in the wooden floor near where she sat; she put it to her lips again. At that moment the girl let out a cry and her father looked over to her, distracted long enough for Phryne to empty the contents into the fissure in the floor.

He went over and opened the door, and moved the child’s stroller into the doorway, blocking any exit, and strapped the suitcase to it, all the time watching Phryne as she kept putting the coffee cup to her lips. He came back into the room, picked up the girl, an effort with her size and lack of any mobility and placed her in the stroller. 

“Thank you for the coffee. You’re going out so I must be on my way. But I must say I’m a little tired.  Is there a post office near here?  I should call for a taxi.”  She deliberately put her hand to her head.

He looked at her gruffly, “No post office near here.  Excuse me.”  He moved to the door, pushed the trolley onto the landing, shutting the door and turning the key on the outside after him, leaving Phryne locked within.  She hurried over to it and listened as she heard the thumping of the stroller down the stairs. She collected the coffee cup and went over to the sink and took the bottle that had held the child’s medication, wrapped them both in her handkerchief and put them in her bag. She then calmly removed a pin from her hat, squatted with her line of sight against the door lock and picked it open. 

Once onto the street, she looked around, “Now what?”  The late afternoon was becoming evening and this, together with the haphazard groupings of terraces and dark narrow laneways allowed her the opportunity to keep close to buildings unobserved.  Her intent was to follow him and then somehow to notify Jack of her whereabouts so he could come and get her and alert the authorities.  She’d need to find a café or a tabac that had a telephone.  She assumed Caillibotte would head in the direction from which she had come originally, towards the main road into town. It didn’t take her long to see his silhouette ahead, looking around constantly, over his shoulder and to each side. She could hear the noise of the child’s stroller as it bumped its way over the cobblestones and, once they were a safe enough distance away, she shadowed them.

 

* * *

 

The black car eased its way through the evening traffic, down the main streets and into the hills surrounding the town.  The Inspector felt he needed to keep up a commentary in English to Jack, evidently proud of his domain.

“Very few crimes here in town.  Not even the Americans – just too many parties and drinking, but they are very good for the town and the area.  They build large villas, film studios, casinos, bring a lot of money.  Even now, since the crash, still bring money and jobs.  Most of the crime is the banlieue, where we are going.”

“Comforting,” thought Jack, and then asked, “What crimes?”

“Prostitution and drogues mainly.  There are crime families in the area.  You know the Milieu corso-marseillais? “

Jack wondered why he would or could have heard of the local mafia.  The Inspector continued,

“Crime families, from Corse, you know the island of Corse?”

“Corsica?”

“Yes, and Marseille.  There are two main families spread right through this area.”

“Do you think this man is part of the milieu?”  Jack felt a slight alarm at the thought that there might be more complex connections to this case than he had originally thought, and if so, why there were only three of them in the car.

“Non, he is Breton, not from ‘ere.  Just I think as you say, revenge for the accident.”

“How much longer until we get there?”

“Soon, soon.”

 

* * *

 

As he neared the main road and stood at the bus stop, Phryne’s heart sank.  The bus would take him out of reach.  It eventually appeared and as she suspected, he hailed it.  As it slowed to a stop, he concentrated on getting his child out of the stroller, and the stroller and his child onto the bus.  No-one appeared to want to assist him.  Phryne watched as he edged his way past the occupied places, and lurched into a seat as the bus took off.

She walked out to the road and watched it chug away into the fading light, and wondered how she might find a taxi or flag down a passing motorist to follow the bus, not that cars seemed very plentiful in this part of town, the road devoid of any vehicles at all. 

“Damn,” she stamped her foot angrily, wondering whether she would be better off waiting for a possible vehicle or heading back into the laneways in the hope of finding somewhere with a telephone. She hesitated, then her decision seemed to made for her as she saw a pair of headlights looming in the distance.  She instantly brightened and walked to the edge of the road, and as the black car approached, she waved frantically at it.

“Phryne!”

“Jack!” she flung herself into the back seat next to him.

“He’s on the bus.  The bus to town.”

“Um… Lady Danby, this is Inspector Brassard. Are you all right?”

“Yes, now you’re here. Bonsoir monsieur. He tried to knock me out with laced coffee then lock me inside his room.  He has the child with him. She’s severely disabled.  I think he’s planning to leave town.”

“Mademoiselle,” the Inspector nodded to her, then turning to the policeman at the wheel, “Suivez la route d’autobus!”

“I think it is the medication he has to give the little girl; that’s what he used.”  She undid the handkerchief in her bag and showed the Jack the bottle.  Jack put on his gloves before looking at it and then passing it to the Inspector in the front seat.

“Pentobarbitone, is _barbiturique._ Oui très bien.  I think you are right.”

Phryne looked at Jack with a malicious grin on her face as if daring him to chastise her for what could have been a dangerous and deadly quest on her part.

It didn’t take long to catch up with the slow progress of the bus, “Le voilà!... Attention Cordeaux.  Attendez qu’il s’arrête, et puis doublez… voilà dépassez, …puis barrez son passage…” the Inspector instructed the policeman to overtake the bus once it had stopped then to block its route forward.  He then turned to Phryne and Jack and asked them to remain, “Restez ici s’il vous plaît. Stay ‘ere please.”

Phryne instantly got out of the car, and Jack, with an annoyed sigh, followed her. They watched as the Inspector held up his badge and indicated to the driver to open the door; he made his way down the bus, as intrigued passengers looked on.  He indicated to Caillibotte to get up, which he did, holding Annick all the while.  The younger policeman waited at the entry, the Inspector bringing up the rear, the suspect effectively trapped between them. 

They emerged and Caillibotte scowled at Phryne.  Beads of sweat had gathered on his brow and he was panting, stooped with the weight of the child and the anger of his predicament. The Inspector ordered his subordinate to take the child from Caillibotte, but her father resisted strongly, stepping away from the policeman, and turning with one arm beneath the girl went to his pocket and held the syringe to her neck, and looking at Phryne,

“I kill her first.  She have no-one to look after ‘er now if I go.  So I kill her.  She can be with ‘er mother. She have no-one….”  The two policemen stood either side of him, their hands held upwards, “Reculez!” he yelled at them to move back.

“Les clés!”  He shouted to them to throw him their car keys which they did, attempting all the while to calm him down..

The bus driver, whose passengers were glued to the windows, with great ceremony and sighing and gesticulating and calling out “les flics, ils nous emmerdent!” (1) closed the door, backed up his bus and took off around the police car. 

Caillibotte kept move back towards the police car, carrying his daughter, keeping the syringe close to her neck, clasping the car keys precariously.

“This will end badly if he doesn’t give up,” whispered Jack. “How is he going to get the girl into the car without being over-powered, and if the hand with the syringe slips, he will do as he’s threatened.  He’ll kill her.”

“He’s got nothing to lose Jack, he’s desperate.  I think I can talk to him.”

“Don’t please; leave it to the police.  Please, no.”

Phryne stepped forward, Jack lunging at her arm to try to hold her back, the French Inspector pleading “S’il vous plaît mademoiselle…” but she edged towards him,

“Please, don’t do this.  Don’t do this to your own flesh and blood. Please monsieur. I will assure you, I promise, that she will be looked after.  She will have everything she will ever need. I can do that.”

She kept her gaze steadily on him, inching towards him, holding out her hand to him.  He looked at her, his eyes blazing, the veins in his neck protruding, the weight of the child in one arm causing his whole body to sink lower. He shouted at her,

“Why you care about her?  Your ‘usband not care about ‘er or my wife.”

Phryne kept her voice low and quiet, “I care because I lost a child, I know what it is like.  My sister, when we were little.  I lost her.  She was murdered. Please, please give me the syringe.  Give it to me.  Don’t do this, not to your own daughter.  Not to Annick. Annick!”

At the sound of her name, the little girl looked at Phryne, then at her father, and started making noises and smiled, as she had before. Her father looked at her, put his head to hers, his face crumpled into a sob; he sank to his knees, the hand with the syringe steading him as he broke down.  Phryne walked up to him and held his wrist with one hand before taking the syringe with the other, then went back to Jack as the police judiciaire took care of father and daughter.

“Well done,” he put an arm around her shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The French maintain a fairly healthy contempt for the police and this is what the bus driver expresses


	34. Chapter 34

It was very late when Jack and Phryne were sitting in Le Relais bar with Harrison, giving him the full details.  They had sat in on interviews of both Rozenn and Yannick Caillibotte and had then briefed Sir Reginald and St John. 

“Rozenn Caillibotte had worked here for several years and obviously recognised Alexander in the newspaper reports from his previous visits.  As she cleaned his room, she had the opportunity to go through his papers, which confirmed her suspicions, that he was being accused in relation to the accident that caused the death of her sister-in-law and niece,” Phryne began.

“She contacted her brother to let him know of your presence, and he travelled here last month when she alerted him to yours and Lord Danby’s return,” Jack continued. “She also ensured she gave his name for casual work and was quite persistent, it appears, in getting him work whenever there was a replacement needed.”

“Was it all premeditated then?” asked Harrison.

“Yannick Caillibotte has been charged with something called _empoisonnement avec préméditation.”_

“Premeditated poisoning, how very French,” the older man remarked.

“Rozenn Caillibotte has been charged as a _complice_ of some kind.  She contrived her brother being here, she knew his intentions, and certainly attempted to mislead me when I interviewed her.  She suggested that Alexander had lovers who had means and motive.”

“And what do we know of the daughter?”

“In the train accident when her mother was killed, she received a serious trauma to the head, which has left her with a brain injury that has affected her physically, psychologically as well as her cognition and ability to communicate.  She needs full time care, but perhaps with the right care there may be hope for some improvement in her condition.”

“Poor mite and now she will be an orphan.”

“Undoubtedly.  If her father isn’t guillotined, he will spend the rest of his life in prison. But Phryne will ensure she’s looked after,” he looked over to her.

“The Caillibotte family are in Brittany, in Finistère.  Apparently fishermen. I will make sure she has the best care for the rest of her life.  St John and Sir Reginald have already suggested that this will prejudice the legal case.”

“Oh how so?”

“By making it appear that we feel guilty about the accident.  But I didn’t think St John had anything to do with the business.  Why should he care?  He’s never shown an interest.”

“No St John has no interest in it, nor any entitlement to it. But we do want Alexander’s name and the company’s name cleared.  We don’t want his name associated with an accident that wasn’t his fault.  The business will still need to pursue the case.  It wouldn’t surprise me if St John all of a sudden took an interest in these affairs.”

“Well that will be for the partners to sort out.  I won’t involve myself in it.”

“Thank goodness for that,” put in Jack.

“So what now darling girl, when can we make the arrangements for the funeral?”

“Not until they release his body. Sir Reginald will need to arrange for it to be sent back to England and we then can bury him in the plot on the estate.  Not before next week I would imagine.  Not yet, but I don’t understand the legal system here very well.  Jack?”

 “Well they need to complete the post-mortem, and that will be in few days’ time with all the legal requirements, perhaps an inquest or it may be a determination by the “juge”.  They may release the body prior to that.  I can’t say.”

The older man nodded, “I do miss him.”

“What will you do?” Phryne asked.

_“ I grow old… I grow old…_

_I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled._

_Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?_

_I shall wear flannel trousers and walk upon the beach_. _”_           (1)

 

“But which beach?”

“You know my dears, I think I will live here, in Nice or somewhere about, Juan-les-Pins or Antibes. When everything is over in England, I’ll come back.  We were always so happy here.  And there’s quite an ex-pat community.  But only if you’ll visit me whenever you can.”

“Of course we will.  Won’t we Jack?”

Jack looked at them both and with a tinge of dryness responded, “Unless you can find another murder for me to investigate I doubt it very much on a policeman’s wages.  Perhaps you’ll come to Melbourne Harrison.”

“Yes, perhaps I will.  I’d like that. But now it is very, very late and I assume we will not be having a morning walk tomorrow as a result?  Good night to you both.  I think I may sleep better tonight, and tomorrow will bring a brighter day.”  He got slowly out of his chair and shook Jack’s hand and kissed Phryne.

“So Jack Robinson.  Case solved.  What now?”

“Apart from the reports to Russell Street and Canberra, and arranging the trip home?”

“But they could wait for tomorrow surely.  What about tonight?”

“Yes, they can wait ‘til tomorrow.  If you mean now, I shall be going straight to bed.  And you?” He paused and felt he needed to leave a less open-ended remark, “You must be exhausted.  You were extraordinary today.”  He stood up, a hand in his pocket, the other held out to her.

Her legs were crossed and she swung one leg to and fro and looked at him, and took his outstretched hand as she got up, “Yes I suppose I’ll tuck myself up in bed too.  Unless you’d like to tuck me in?”

Why was it that she was able to give him that seductive, irresistible look with her eyes, and with the tone of her voice, and with the way she sat? His mouth was dry, knowing full well what he wanted to say, but reverted to rhetoric, “Not tonight Joséphine.  You know perfectly well that it wouldn’t be right, not here anyway, and just imagine if St John or Sir Reginald found out. It would ruin both of us. Come on, I’ll escort you as far as your door and no further. ” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Prufrock


	35. Chapter 35

Jack was up and about early despite the limited hours of sleep.  He needed to complete his reports and have them telegraphed and make other arrangements, including for his trip home.  He collected the local papers on his way back to the hotel and found photographs of Phryne taken outside the hotel lobby the day before, looking glamorous despite the dark outfit, and articles on the case with a quote from her.  It was nearly lunchtime when he went to her suite, and found her still in a heavily-embroidered black peignoir, and lounging casually.  He handed over the newspapers,

“Front page in the ex-pat _Herald_ Lady Danby and an article in the local paper too. _Le peer tue l’amour_.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s a play on words. _Pire_ in French is pronounced the same way as “peer”,  but in French it means worse or worst,  _tue l’amour_ means literally “killer of love” but also something that ruins passion, a mood- killer.  So they are saying that what has happened is the worst of passion-killers, it implies the death of the peer, Lord Danby, has killed off your love. It is quite sympathetic I think.”

She leafed through the papers and smiled at the coverage.

“Those pictures aren’t too bad. Oh dear, not a mention of St John.  He will have his nose out of joint.”  She put the papers aside and picked up a card to show him, “And we’ve an invitation to Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald’s villa in Juan-les-Pins this evening.  Their parties are quite famous.  There will be a crowd there I imagine, Hemingway will be there and the Bennett’s and the Murphy’s, probably Picasso and goodness knows who else.  That should be fun.”

“Hmm, infamous more likely and I’m quite sure the invitation is for you, not me.  I would be a hindrance and an embarrassment. They want you for your star value.”

“But you’ll come as my partner.”

 “Take Harrison.”

“I don’t want to take Harrison. I want to go with you.”

“You know how perfectly inept I would be, as well as uncomfortable.  I like his novels, but I daresay I’d hate his parties.  I introduced Miss Walsted to Fitzgerald and loaned her all my Hemmingway.  So that’s another reason not to. I’d feel obliged to ask for their autographs. Anyway, I have other arrangements for this evening.”

“What other arrangements?”

“I’m going to Paris, on the overnight train.  I’m leaving from there to go back to Melbourne.”

“You’re going to Paris, tonight?  Why didn’t you say?”

“I’ve just told you.”

“But…, but what about me?”

“Can we talk about that now Phryne?  Now that this case has been resolved, can we talk about us?”

“Yes. If you want.”  She looked genuinely concerned and sat down next to him on the lounge.

Jack sat forward slightly and crossed his hands and looked as if he were about to launch into something that had hung around for a while, a pre-prepared speech or a learned soliloquy, “When you left to take your father to England, you wanted me to come after you.  I didn’t.  You know the reasons – whether they were right or sensible, I can’t say, but I didn’t and you married someone else without giving me any notice, without any explanation.”

“But I’ve told you why that was.”

 He continued undeterred, “Tell me if you thought of me at all when you made that decision.”

Phryne looked at him, for a long time, before she answered, “It’s hard to explain what happened but I’ll do my best and I can’t give you a straight answer.  I’ve told you why I did it but I now know that I acted desperately, impulsively, and not really in anyone’s interest, except possibly my parents.  Despite my upbringing, despite what I think of them, especially Father, I owe them my current position and independence.  I wanted, I needed to sort out their financial difficulties, partly because I felt an obligation to them, but partly for selfish reasons too, so that they wouldn’t become a burden on me. I could see the only solution being their coming to live with me in St Kilda, and I couldn’t have countenanced that. I thought the arrangement with Alexander would be for everyone’s benefit. I was mistaken.  I thought I would be able to spend time in England meeting Alexander’s needs then have plenty of time to be home in St Kilda and lead the life I’d always lead.”

“Everyone would just fit in around these arrangements, including me?”

“I know I hurt you very much.  I didn’t think it through at the time; I invented workable scenarios in my head.  I rushed the decision and rationalised that I could be as free as I ever was.”

“But you’ll always want that won’t you, your freedom to be what you are, without reference to anyone else?”

“That’s not entirely true.”  She reached over and held his hand, “Not anymore.”

“So how did you consider you and me in this irrational plan of yours?”

“I have never deliberately hurt anyone I care about.  In my mind I thought you would come after me, that you would follow me to England, that we would continue working and being together.  I thought that I would have the same freedom in my marriage that Alexander had, that we could pursue a partnership if that’s what you wanted too.  Although you didn’t come straight away, I thought as soon as I told you, you would change your mind and be on the next boat.  I never expected that telegram as your response.”  She held his hand a little tighter, “I should have found some way of explaining it to you.  I am truly sorry.”

“So if I had come after you, you would have explained all this to me and I would have been party to the decisions.  Is that what you’re saying?  We may have come out of this differently?”

“Perhaps, yes...,” She looked at him, his brow furrowed, his hands clasped together, the hint of a dimple in his cheek; he really was the best man she had ever met, and she knew she loved him.  “Tell me what you want Jack.”

“I want you. Simple as that. And you?”

“I thought it was obvious but if it still is not, you …  Jack Robinson.”

He stopped looking at the carpet and rested his eyes on hers, “Do you remember that I wrote to you and said that I would like to take you to Paris to show you that it can be the most romantic city in the world?  To wash away those awful memories of what you experienced there with René?”

“Yes. How could I forget?”

“Come to Paris with me then, tonight.  It will be Paris on a policeman’s wage but that’s what I’m offering.”  He delved into the pocket of his jacket and held up two train tickets. She grabbed at them but he whisked them behind his back, raised his eyebrows and tilted his head in demanding an answer. 

“You bought me a ticket? So you assumed that I would agree? “

“To this proposal, yes I did, I hoped you would.”

She smiled broadly, “I accept, with great pleasure! I shall have to let down the Fitzgerald’s very gently and let them know I have a much better offer.”

“So shall we have an early lunch since you obviously missed breakfast, and tell Harrison of our plans? And you’ll need to sort things with St John too, in relation to the funeral.”

 

* * *

 

 

Harrison seemed remarkably pleased with their plans and promised Phryne he would pack Alexander’s things from the suite and arrange for anything of hers to be sent back to London with him.

“Leave it all to me, it will keep me busy and I am quite sure the new Lord Danby and Sir Reginald will happily delegate to me the more mundane tasks.  They can deal with the authorities, they’ll enjoy that, they can throw their weight around,  and it will keep them here while you are in Paris. Now, if this is to be our last meal together, let’s go into the old part of town, le Vieux Nice, for _pissaladière_ and a glass of the local rosé.”

“And this is…?”

“Caramelised onion tart, my dears, and it’s divine.”

“A divine tart, how appropriate!  Give me time to change… And Harrison, how will you explain my stay in Paris to St John?” 

“The business of course. And Jack, you needn’t mention you’re going home via Paris.”

Phryne headed into her bedroom and Harrison and Jack went downstairs to conduct final arrangements with Sir Reginald, who was waiting for them in the foyer, as was St John.

“Sir Reginald, Lord Danby,” Jack acknowledged them both with a handshake as they sat down.

“Case closed Inspector.  I hope you are satisfied?” sniffed Sir Reginald.

Jack thought remaining obtuse would be the best tack, “I don’t think anyone is ever satisfied with a murder.  But I found the police and the pathologists very cooperative and dealt with everything promptly.  We couldn’t have been better served in terms of support, don’t you think?”

“It is getting media attention here and back home I believe and Lady Phryne has had her fair share of it.  Has she seen today’s press I wonder?  I hope that won’t last too long.  I’m only thinking of Isobel and the boys,” St John attempted to sound sincere.

“I assume you will finalise the arrangements with the coroner and anything required by the magistrate Sir Reginald?  I am at your service of course should you require me for anything else.”  Jack knew that this was a risk given his planned departure, but one worth taking.

“Yes well I suppose you’re not at liberty to extend your stay any longer than is absolutely necessary Inspector.  You wouldn’t have that privilege in your position.  Sir Reginald will stay on and assist.”  St John couldn’t resist a few final jabs and he smiled obsequiously at Sir Reginald.

Harrison spoke up, “Now gentlemen, I assume you would you like me to deal with Lord Danby’s effects.  Have them packed up and sent home? 

“Thank you Mr Johnson, that would be appropriate unless his widow would care to be involved in anything at all, apart from publicity? Perhaps she’d like to brief the press.”  Sir Reginald gave a knowing look to St John. 

But Harrison was ready, “Lady Danby is keen to be on her way home to the estate and will need to be available to call in at the office in Paris, so she will be heading there tonight.  There are still some matters pending in relation to the case that need to be finalised.  Lord Danby was working on them just prior to his… death.”  Jack admired Harrison’s ability to say everything and nothing at the same time.

“Oh really?” queried St John, “What matters are they?  And by the way, she is now Lady _Phryne_ Danby, Isobel is Lady Danby now.  I’d ask you to refer to her that way.”

“I understand they are highly confidential, so Lady _Phryne_ Danby has undertaken that delicate task.  But she is quite on top of them and very able in that domain I believe.  And she is best placed to brief the associates about the link with the murder.”

“And her largesse in relation to the child will require some explanation I imagine. Very well, so be it.  It will be appropriate for things to be left to us, to Sir Reginald and me.  Harrison, please ask Lady Phryne to see me before she leaves.”

“She will be down shortly I believe sir.”

“We can’t wait; Sir Reginald and I have things to discuss over lunch.  Unless of course you two would care to join us?”  The question was put with so little enthusiasm that its intention was abundantly clear.

“No thank you all the same,” Jack responded. “I have something arranged and Harrison will be joining me.”

“Well it has been good to meet you Inspector and as it’s unlikely our paths will cross again, I do wish you well in the future.”

“As do I”, chorused Sir Reginald, before the two men made their way from the foyer and out of sight.


	36. Chapter 36

Old Nice, Vieux Nice, was a honeycomb of narrow streets and alleyways, with bright yellow-brown and dusty pink houses, cafés, shops and restaurants with a noisy, busy food and flower market square at its centre. As they wandered through, the lanes were so narrow, it was impossible not to be tempted by the smells of the fresh fruits, vegetables, bread and the aromas of cooking in the houses, food stalls and restaurants.

Harrison directed them to a busy café terrace with wooden bench seats and tables squeezed onto the footpath.   He nodded to a waiter who seemed to know him and ordered on everyone’s behalf.  A short time later they were serving themselves light, chilled rosé from a ceramic jug, and eating the sweet and salty flavours of caramelised onions and anchovies and local black olives on a base of buttery puff pastry.

They toasted their newly formed friendship that they would maintain across miles, across continents.

“What is your itinerary for Paris?  Or is it a secret?”

“I have no idea at all, Jack has a plan I believe, but I don’t know it.  Are you going to tell Jack?”

“Well I think we’ll have about four days before we will need to head off in different directions, so we shouldn’t attempt too much.  And keep our visits to places that are relatively small scale and intimate, perhaps less well known than the major monuments.”

“Good strategy, and where will you stay?”

“In the 6th.  Phryne knows it will be a little less lavish than her normal haunts.”

“By the Jardins du Luxembourg?  Lovely spot and I think a low profile would be eminently sensible.  And I’ll give you some papers to drop in at the lawyers’ office.  That way I have told Lord Danby the truth and it will save me a trip to the post office.”

“What will happen with the business?  Who will run it now and manage the case?  Do you know anything of Alexander’s will?”

“Yes I do and I assume St John does too.  The estate is his, but not the business or any of its assets.  The estate is profitable, he will not want for anything and of course he has the title that means so much to him.  But the business will be divided between the partners who will need to manage this difficult matter. You and I will be the recipients of a percentage of the annual profits – a stipend – I believe Phryne. ”

“Will we indeed?”

“I’m glad I know that now and not before the investigation,” put in Jack.

“Yes, Alexander suspected that I would be persona non-gratia if he were to go before  me, and I’m sure he was keen to ensure you were looked after too Phryne.  So that’s why I know I shall be able to happily spend the rest of my days here.”

“I am already well looked after!  Goodness. But tell me, how did you two meet?  I’ve never asked.  But you don’t have to say if you’d rather not.”

“Is that the amateur detective in you or do you really want to know?”

“I want to know actually.” 

“We met at a party, one of his own.   He had only recently married so he and Lady Deirdre Danby were entertaining quite a bit.  We liked each other straight away and after a while realised we were kindred spirits as it were.  We remained so.”

“How was Lady Deirdre about it all?  How soon did she know?”

“Well I can’t really say.  It took us a while to realise we both felt the same way about each other.  I suppose for Deidre and Alex it would have manifested itself on several levels - one a private and intimate one between the two of them and that I simply don’t know about.  Perhaps Deirdre was none the wiser initially. There were plenty of arranged marriages for peers like Alexander, where the husband was required to marry a suitable lady and it was tolerated that he carried on a relationship quite happily outside the marriage.  Perfectly acceptable so long as discretion was exercised and there were no claims on entitlements. Quite common really.  I think Deirdre may have more accepted that kind of affair than ours.  Once she knew, she became even more withdrawn and proper than she was initially.  She basically shunned Alexander and refused to speak to me at all. But all the while carried on her role as mistress of the home, the consummate hostess and devoted mother to St John.”

“How did she die?  Alexander told me she just faded away.”

“Once St John had left home, I don’t think she felt any responsibilities any longer, to anyone.  It was winter, she caught an influenza that became pneumonia and she just never recovered.  I think living in a relationship without intimacy or true love or indeed the bond that comes from that combination must have worn her out.  But I am sure she wasn’t the only person in the world to have had to endure that.  Alexander did feel for her.”

Jack shifted uncomfortably and stared deliberately into the last of his glass of wine and swirled its contents as would a connoisseur before describing its tones. Phryne looked over at him, then at Harrison who realised there were parallels with his new-found friends and with one in particular that were all too close to what he had related.

“Can we go and have a look at the 17th century cathedral we passed earlier?  It seemed to be a very fine example of baroque architecture.”   Jack finished his wine and went to stand, offering his hand to Phryne to help her up.

“Yes, what a good idea and we will need to go by Le Maître Glacier which has the best ice cream in Nice.  The flavours, can I recommend the rose or the lavender or the honey and almond?”


	37. Chapter 37

Harrison accompanied them in the taxi to the train station that evening, helping put the luggage onto racks, the trip with them masking his unwillingness to say goodbye.

“Jack, I can’t believe we aren’t having a sleeper.  We seriously have to sit up all night?”

Jack nodded and shrugged his shoulders.

“That was a Gallic shrug, I saw it.  Can I use some of my pocket money and have a sleeper?”

“If you want.  I’ll see you in the morning at the Gare du Nord then.  Harrison, we may need to move Lady Phryne’s luggage, she seems to be reneging on the pauper’s Paris deal before we’ve even started.”

Harrison smiled, “I am quite sure the compartment won’t be crowded, you’ll probably have it to yourselves, and you’ll be able to curl up quite comfortably.”

Phryne took her hands off her hips and gave Jack an arch look, “Very well, as long as I have your lap to cushion my head.”

Harrison went back to the platform and they both followed him onto it to say goodbye.

“Goodbye my dear Phryne.  I’ll see you soon,” and whispered, “Don’t you lose him darling girl.  There are depths there that only you can fathom.”

He shook hands warmly with Jack, “Look after her.  She needs you.  And I do hope we will meet again one day.”

They climbed back into the compartment and Jack closed the door onto the corridor, pleased that it looked like they would be alone.  They took off coats and hats, gathered their reading material, and sat side by side, just settling themselves in, when Phryne heard a low mutter from Jack, “Oh no…” and followed his gaze out to the corridor where a very well-proportioned nun was tugging open the door,

“Vous permettez?”  She had a strong niçois accent, and puffed and panted as she had to turn sideways to fit through the narrow doorway.

“Oui bien sûr ma sœur,” Jack immediately got up and helped her with her bag and she sat down heavily and deliberately on the seat opposite.  She nodded at them both, her hands resting on her knees, wide apart to manage her comfort.

Phryne turned to Jack, identifying that travelling on a policeman’s wage might not be what she was used to, not what she wanted, and not in the interests of romance at all.  She muttered to him, “And I suppose this place where we will be staying near the Luxembourg gardens in the 6th is actually a park bench?”

“Much better than that.  You don’t mind a hostel do you? It’s very conveniently located. We’ll be sharing – just not with each other – there are separate male and female dormitories.”  He looked at her earnestly, so earnestly that her mouth that had dropped open, she was obliged to close without a word, as she couldn’t make out whether he was serious or not.  He opened his newspaper and started to read, then lowered it for a moment, “Tell me when you’re tired and I’ll make up my lap for you.”

 

* * *

 

Phryne lifted her tousled head from Jack’s lap.  He had turned his coat inside out and folded it as a cushion and tucked her velvet and fur coat around her like a blanket.  One of his arms was draped over her, his legs stretched out under the bench seat opposite as he’d endeavoured to find a comfortable position to sleep.  She slowly raised herself.

“What time is it?”

“Nearly eight.  You’ve slept for hours, since Marseille.  My lap must be very comfortable.”

“Argh. Did you sleep?”  She pushed her coat aside.

“A bit.”

She looked across at the nun, upright and reading earnestly.  She nodded back at Phryne and watched her as she sat up fully and looked out of the window.

“Fatiguée madame?”

“Tired?  No, not anymore.”  She stretched, stood up and adjusted her clothes, then rubbed her hand across her stomach, staggering a bit as the train rattled and pitched. “I’m quite hungry.  Is there anything left of Harrison’s hamper?”

He steadied her as he got up beside her, holding her hips gently, “Yes, I think so.”  He retrieved the bag of assorted refreshments and handed her a baguette with ham, and offered another to the nun.

“Ah non merci monsieur, c’est gentil.  Mais regardez, j’ai mes propres provisions. ”   She declined showing him her own supplies from beneath her habit.  She then steadfastly watched as Phryne sat down again and tucked happily into her sandwich.

“Vous êtes enceinte madame?”

Phryne looked over at Jack for a translation, but before he could respond the nun spoke to Jack,

“Votre femme monsieur.  Elle avait l’air tellement fatiguée,  et elle mange avec tant d’appétit,  je pensais qu’elle était peut-être enceinte?”

“Ah non, je ne crois pas. ”

“What did she say?”

“Well she thinks my wife looked so tired and is eating so heartily she must be um… pregnant.”

“And you said?”

“I said I didn’t believe so.”

“How extremely forward of her! Could you please tell her that as it appears we are travelling under her strict supervision, then apparently staying in some  puritan quarters in Paris, that she should expect another star to rise in the east before that could possibly happen?” she hissed at him, then shook her head at the nun.

The nun looked at Jack uncomprehending, scrunched up her nose, shrugged her shoulders and gave a little laugh.

“Shall I go and see if I can find you some coffee to gulp down or aren’t you supposed to have coffee in your condition? “

“Yes please.  But don’t be long.  I don’t want any marriage guidance counselling while you’re away.”

“Oh I don’t know, might do you some good.” And turning to their travel companion Jack offered to bring her back a coffee as well.

“Il est gentil votre mari, madame.”

“Yes he is, he is very nice.  I am very lucky.  Oui, j’ai de la chance.”


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a scene warning here - please just skip it if it's not your scene.

The train pulled into the Gare du Nord amid the hubbub and excitement of Paris’ busiest station in the early afternoon. Jack steered them along the platform, which was crammed with people and luggage, boxes and trolleys and then into the taxi queue. Jack handed the taxi driver the address then he looked at her, “I hope that nun isn’t staying in your dorm at the hostel.”

“I think I’d prefer one of Mrs Moller’s holiday cottages in Lawn to a hostel in Paris. And I thought you used the word romantic in the invitation.”

“Look around you!”  He sat back in the taxi and began pointing out the magnificent architecture as they drove down wide avenues, flanked by apartment buildings, entire blocks with co-ordinated balcony heights of ornate iron work, each storey of locally-quarried _pierre de taille_ with a crowning floor with garret windows under a Mansard roof.

Their route took them across Paris from the right bank in the north to the left bank,  across the Seine and the Ile de la cite, past the flying buttresses of Notre Dame and then to a small street off the Boulevard St Germain.

The Hotel du Parc, was a sandy-coloured stone corner of a beautiful apartment building with a glass awning and blue enamel plaque marking its entrance.  Once inside, and to the right of the foyer, was a small desk, behind which sat a slight woman with round iron-rimmed glasses, knitting.  She smiled at them as they entered.

“Monsieur-dame, bonjour.  C’est au quel nom?”

“Bonjour madame. Robinson.”

“Attendez, Robinson, oui.  Tenez, remplissez s’il vous plait.”  She handed him a form to complete and asked for his passport, and as he completed the formalities Phryne wandered across the polished parquet floor with a bemused expression on her face.  On the other side of the entrance from the desk was a pretty breakfast room of wooden tables and chairs, sun flooding through the windows onto the street, and a guest lounge with mouldings around the ceiling and a fireplace with marble mantels.

 “Voilà monsieur, vous êtes au cinquième. Voilà votre clé.“  She handed him a key for a room on the fifth floor.

 “What?” asked Jack, looking at her over his shoulder and taking in her expression.

“It’s charming!”

“Did you expect anything less?”

One aspect of their corner room looked out onto the street, the other onto the Luxembourg gardens.  Sun streamed in from the western side. It wasn’t large, occupied by a bed and small desk with one chair, a tiny bathroom built into one corner and a wood- panelled wardrobe against the only free wall.

Phryne threw open the windows and stepped out onto the small balcony and looked across to the gardens. Jack took off his coat and hat and followed her out and slipped an arm around her waist.

“Do you see a park bench you fancy? Or I could try and find a hostel if you’d prefer.”

“I think it’s lovely.  You are a tease Jack Robinson… So what’s the plan for this afternoon?”

“Well, I thought we might go to Sainte Chapelle – have you been there?”

She shook her head.

“It is quite beautiful, high Gothic, very small, with spectacular stained glass in the upper chapel.  It is one of the most beautiful places in all of Paris; they have concerts there in the evenings; then we might have a drink in one of the cafés nearby, to relax, watch the passing parade, and perhaps dinner at one of the bistrots closer to here.  How does that sound?”

She nodded, feeling quite overwhelmed and emotional and she wasn’t quite sure why.

“But first, I feel I need to shower having been up in these clothes all night, and maybe…,” he turned to her and tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear, “have a rest.  I think I need one before we go out.  What about you?”

 “That sounds… like a very good idea!”

“Alright, you can use the bathroom first and I’ll tidy our things away as best I can, so we have some room to move.”  They went inside and he closed the shutters of the windows after them, the room reduced to semi-darkness apart from shafts of sunlight through the cracks. He stacked their suitcases and took a few things from his bag, as she took off her clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor and, wearing only a grey satin camisole and nickers, glanced his way as she went into the bathroom. 

He heard the sound of the water running and stood up from what he was doing.  He unbuttoned his shirt slowly, concentrating on a thought, then took off his trousers and folded them neatly, then as the thought became clearer he dragged off the rest of his clothes and opened the bathroom door. The shower cubicle was miniscule but he squeezed in behind her and wrapped his arms around her, feeling the water run over him and watching it run over her.  She leaned back into him as he took the soap and rubbed it over her, her neck, her arms, her breasts, her stomach until her skin glistened. She turned around and they stumbled and laughed at the tightness of the space for any movement. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him, water flowing down their faces and into their mouths.  He felt the rise of her breast against his chest as he cradled her hips against his.  He reached around her and turned off the taps and took a towel from the rack and wrapped it around her, her hair wet at its extremities, her body moist and glowing. She blew her fringe out of her eyes and looked at him. Her took her face in his hands and kissed her, his hands cupping her damp cheeks before drawing away from her.

She took the other towel and ran it down his back, over his shoulders and chest before tying it around his waist admiring him as she did so, his body svelte and sinewed, firm in all the right places.  He followed her with his eyes, watching her as she dropped her towel onto the floor, turned back the covers of the bed, and slid underneath them, lying on her side, looking up at him.  He got in beside her, and raised himself on an elbow, and returned her look.  He ran a finger down the length of her face, across her cheek and under her chin.  She lifted her neck as he caressed her throat, still damp and smelling of soap, then down to her nipples, circling each with the back of his finger.   He cupped each breast in his hand, feeling the peak of her nipple in the centre of his palm as it hardened to his touch. He ran his hand down her stomach and between her legs, wrapped a hand around her thigh and brought her hips underneath him, nestling himself between them and began the exploration down her body again, this time with his lips and tongue, caressing first her eyelids then cheeks. He looked at her face, beautiful in the dim light, her dark hair against her alabaster skin, her eyes aflame, lips apart. She ran her fingers through his hair and pulled his mouth to hers kissing him softly at first then firm and insistent.

He lowered his lips to her throat, then ran his tongue down to her nipples and sucked gently on her breasts as her nails stroked the skin of his neck and shoulders, and she arched her back and murmured in response to his caresses. He sensed his pulse racing as he entered her, a wave of desire overwhelming him as he buried himself within her. She wrapped her legs around him and moved her hips to his rhythm, slow at first as she moaned quietly and sunk her nails deeper into his skin. Pleasure consumed their bodies as they rocked together, gently, measured, wanting to sustain the sensations, and then more quickly, involuntarily, uncontrollably fast for them to reach their peak.  She gasped and he heard his own cry spontaneously echoing hers.

He collapsed onto the pillow and pulled her to him, and she nestled her head into the small of his shoulder, her arm across his chest.  She felt the thudding of his heart and the gentle pressure of his fingers along her arm.  He held her closely and kissed her forehead, taking in her perfume, feeling her heat, tasting the saltiness of the beads of sweat on her skin, and lay back and closed his eyes and murmured to her:

 

Let Rome in Tiber melt and the wide arch

Of the ranged empire fall. Here is my space.

Kingdoms are clay. Our dungy earth alike

Feeds beast as man. The nobleness of life

Is to do thus, when such a mutual pair

And such a twain can do’t, in which I bind,

On pain of punishment, the world to weet

We stand up peerless.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Antony and Cleopatra Act 1, sc i
> 
> meaning:  
> Let Rome be washed away in the Tiber River and let the great empire fall. My place is here. Kingdoms are only dirt. The soil feeds animals as well as people, so how does having a kingdom separate humans from beasts? The noblest thing is to do what we’re doing, particularly when the couple is as well matched as we are. I demand that the world admit we are the perfect couple or else suffer the consequences.


	39. Chapter 39

“How do we get to Sainte Chapelle?”

“We walk.”

“How long will it take?”

“About 15 minutes, a little longer if we amble.  It’s on the Ile de la Cité, so we’ll cross at Pont Neuf, right on the tip of the island then walk along the Seine ?”

“Sounds lovely!”

They strolled along arm in arm, both feeling a frisson of pleasure in not only being in Paris, but being in Paris in each other’s company and being there in very different circumstances from each of their previous experiences.  It was cooler than in Nice and they were both rugged up against a cool spring wind that tugged at their hats and coats, requiring them to keep close.

The exterior of the chapel was fairly austere, and Phryne looked it up and down as if somewhat disillusioned.

“It’s the treasure within,” Jack sensed her disappointment.  They walked into the lower chapel, and were immediately shrouded in a rich interior, with vaulted ceilings painted in deep blues with motifs in gold – fleur de lys and castillian castles; the red walls covered in paintings.

“Louis IX, Saint Louis built it to house the relics of Christ he’d bought from the emperor of Constantinople.  Come upstairs.”

They walked up the narrow stone stairway and she was immediately transfixed by what lay above and gasped in sheer delight; a vast expanse of colour and light in stained glass enveloped them. Immense windows of deep blues and reds representing biblical stories surrounded by delicate stonework towered above them with no visible means of support, with a large rose window adding to the fragile beauty, dominating one wall.  They walked the full length before stopping and sitting down on one of the benches to take in the mesmerising sight and sat for a long time absorbing the surrounds.

“I didn’t know it was here.  It is truly exquisite.”

“There’s a chamber orchestra concert here this evening, performing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.  Would you like to go?  Not a bad venue for an intimate concert.”  He looked at her as she gazed around the chapel, seemingly unable to take her eyes off the immensity of the stained-glass.  She eventually turned to him,

“Jack, all other members of the English-speaking world who have flocked to Paris are attempting to ingratiate themselves with Hemingway and Gertrude Stein and other members of The Lost Generation, or are going to the jazz clubs to hear Josephine Baker and Django Reinhardt, and you want us to listen to a baroque concert in a gothic church!”

“We don’t have to, just an idea,” his soulful eyes tried to understand what she was feeling.

She squeezed his arm, “I would like nothing better.”

“Shall we go and get the tickets then and have un apéro in one of the cafés near here? ”

Les Deux Palais was diagonally opposite the chapel and looked out over a square.  It was a hive of activity as people leaving work obviously stopped off for a drink to whet their appetites for dinner. They sat at a table with their chairs facing outwards to the street and the square, as one does in Paris, it encouraged not only people-watching by the café patrons but passers-by to observe the patrons.

A quiet insinuation of starched white and jet black appeared beside them, “Vous avez choisi?” 

 “Un Soixante Quinze” Phryne responded and looked over at Jack who nodded, “deux.” She smiled at the waiter who gave her an inscrutable look in response.

“What are we having?”

“A French 75.”

“As in the field gun?”

“Yes, the combination of champagne, gin, lemon juice and sugar has a kick as if you’ve been shelled by one.”

“Perhaps I might just stick to the one then.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, we have over an hour before the concert and you don’t have to get up early for work tomorrow.”

“No, but we could go for a walk in Luxembourg Gardens.”

“But not necessarily early.  We could sleep in a little.”

“I suppose so.  It’s just that I feel we have so little time I want to make the most of every minute.”

“But we can do that while we’re sleeping in, can’t we?”

“Yes, I can imagine we could,” he looked away as he always did when he was self-conscious, a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment.

She looked at him, amusement suggested in every feature of her face, until he was forced by the silence between them to look back at her.

“What?  Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I was just remembering our um… rest, and how pleasant it was.”

Just the hint of smile played around his lips, then looking straight ahead he responded, “My plan was to have frequent rests while we’re here.” 

“Well as you know I do like a man with a plan,” her eyes sparkled at him.

Their field guns arrived in tall glasses with sugared rims and twists of lemon peel floating on top, and they clinked them together.

“So why did you come to Paris for your R and R leave?  Most soldiers went to London didn’t they?”

“Yes they did but not all.  Paris was closer for a start, so it felt like I was using all the time available to get away.  And I suppose too because less people came here, that was an advantage, for me.  I didn’t want to do the sorts of things the rest of my unit did.  I just wanted to immerse myself in everything that wasn’t war, going to book shops, museums and galleries… gothic churches!”

“Rather than wine and women?”

“I’m sure I still had the odd glass of _vin rouge_.”

“And any odd women?”

“Phryne!  You know perfectly well a gentleman never tells. Anyhow I was a married man, quite newly married.”

Phryne saw her chance to find out more on a subject that had continued to intrigue her, “Did you miss Rosie?”

“Must we?”  He ran his fingers through his hair, “I don’t want to talk about Rosie.  Rosie, _c’est du passé_.”

“I think I want to know, I need to know.  Just a few questions.  I would like to understand.” 

“Alright. So is that one question already?”

“Yes, but you didn’t answer it.”

“Yes, I missed her.  Everyone missed their wives, sweethearts, families.  How could you not?  It was hell on earth.  Thinking about home and family helped keep you alive.  You must have felt that too? Next question.”

“So what went wrong when you got home?  If you were newly married and in love?”

“So that’s two more questions. When I got home I wasn’t the person who went away.  I was different.  Rosie didn’t know who I was, didn’t like the person I’d become.  _I_ didn’t like the person I’d become but I couldn’t do anything about it.  I rejected her and she couldn’t get through to me.  It was mutual abandonment.”

“But what had you become? And stop counting the questions.  I told you about Alexander and me and all the wrong choices I made because you needed to know.  Now tell me about the man who returned and how different you were.”

“Introverted, reclusive, bad-tempered, withdrawn, humourless, sour, angry with the world, and resentful of everyone.  Who would love someone like that?”

“But you’re not like that now.” She looked at him mischievously, “well not very much.  So how have you overcome it?”

“I’m less like that now I know.  Still plenty of shadows. Time I suppose changes things, as the memories fade and you know you have to get on with life. Becoming more conscious of how I present to other people. Realising that being permanently withdrawn can be selfish and ultimately destructive. Calling an end to the misery with Rosie.”  He paused, “Meeting you.”

“Meeting me?”

He looked down at his hand covering hers under the table, and ran his thumb across the back of her palm.  He rested his other elbowed arm on the table, ran his hand along his chin. 

“Yes.  You didn’t treat me with kid gloves, or care about protocol, or shy away from telling me what you thought of me. And then I fell in love with you, your compassion, your courage, your boldness, your playfulness, your stunning beauty - and that just meant I saw the world differently again.  Living had some pleasure…. So can I please be excused from answering any more questions?”

 “Yes but tell me what else you have in mind for our stay here.”

“Well, the Musée Rodin that was the Hôtel Biron originally – now houses a collection of Rodin’s sculptures and drawings.  It opened after the war, I haven’t been there.”

“So we will see _Le Baiser,_ The Kiss?”

“We should expect to, yes; and then I thought, possibly, the Cluny which is just around the corner from where we are staying - the Lady and the Unicorn tapestries are worth seeing if you haven’t seen them; then there’s the Orangerie where Monet has gifted enormous panels of waterlilies to the State as a monument to the end of war. I haven’t seen them but they have redesigned two huge oval rooms to display them, newly opened. And I thought we might do a day trip out to Malmaison, Josephine’s palace - I went to a lecture series about it at The Athenaeum and it sounds like the grounds as well as the palace are worth seeing.”

“Isn’t that something you went to with Miss Walsted?”

“Yes it was.  And all I could think about at the time was that I would never be able to go there, and never with you.”

“Oh Jack,” she pulled up his hand that was still holding hers and kissed it.

“So not a jazz club or a sycophantic encounter with a writer in sight… if you can bear it.”

“I think I may bear up quite well.”

“Come on it’s time for the concert. Vivaldi awaits. We have limited ourselves to one Soixante Quinze by doing what the French do, eking out one drink in a café for a long time.  And do you know Phryne Fisher, if I may be so bold as to call you that, people seem to hold hands in the street here and nobody seems to care at all?”

She stood up and walked with him hand in hand towards the road where they waited to cross, “And do you know, Jack Robinson, that people kiss in the street here and nobody seems to care at all?”

He pulled her to him and kissed her.


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scene warning!

They both were rather exhausted at the end of their final day together and were sitting in a café near their hotel in the late afternoon enjoying what had become their apéro du séjour, a Soixante Quinze.  They had travelled out to the Château de Malmaison and walked a good deal in the extensive grounds, including the gardens of roses celebrated by Redouté.

“How long do you think you’ll need to be in England?”

“Well now that Harrison has confirmed that the funeral is to be next week, I can start to plan my exit.  There’s not only the packing, there will be financial matters to resolve. I’ll need to ensure that Mother and Father are completely sorted, and that their pecuniary plans are so tight that they cannot land themselves into trouble again; I want to see that Harrison is looked after, I don’t trust St John one bit; and I will speak to lawyers too about arrangements for Annick Caillibotte. And I can’t be seen to leave too soon.  It may look a little mercenary and insensitive.  So perhaps in about six weeks?”

“And then more weeks for your return trip.  So that’s over two months.”

“You can wait that long surely!”

“What if another eminently suitable English peer were to present himself to you as a suitor?”

“I promise I won’t marry anyone else before coming home, and certainly not without your consent. And you must promise to do the same – I don’t want another Miss Walsted coming along to enchant you.”

“Well if it wasn’t for Miss Walsted, we would not have visited Malmaison today.  And I really enjoyed it.  Didn’t you?”

She looked at him quite crossly.  “You promised me Jack, that if I came with you to Paris that I would find it the most romantic place in the world.” He returned her look, unsure of what to say.  He dropped his mouth open, dismayed, but couldn’t find any words.

She continued, and put one hand on her hip, “You promised, that if I came with you, accepting of course that it was to be on a policeman’s wage, that it would be quixotic.  You promised that I would find it taste of love, of passion – you promised me Jack Robinson!”

“Yes, I d-” He stumbled to make sense of what was happening, of what she was saying.  He had completely misread the past four days.  His mind was a confusion of sentiments – disbelief, bewilderment, humiliation.

“All the things I thought this city to be – full of excitement and distraction, of luxury and frivolity, of extravagance and bohemian joie de vivre…”  She flung her arms wildly about, looking fractious.

“But I thought you’d-, that we’d-”

“Well I just wanted to say,” she spoke quietly, “that what you promised is exactly what it is.  I think it is the most romantic place in the whole world.  I never experienced it this way, not at all. It is beautiful and inspiring and rich and profound.”  She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, “Thank you.”

He gave her a look that was a cross between embarrassment and affection, between self-confidence and uncertainty, “Right, well, I’m glad.”

“Now just excuse me I need to find a pharmacy.  Will you wait here?”

“Yes, there is one in just about every street, so shouldn’t be far.  Are you sure you don’t want me to go for you?”

“No, absolutely not.  Won’t be long.”  She stood up and gave him a sideways look, her neck exposed with her head tilted to the side, eyebrows raised, a little pout appearing around her lips, and disappeared with a flourish of fabric and movement,  leaving him as mesmerised by her as ever. 

He thought over their time together, galleries and museums, art and music, gardens and monuments – it had been slow and soft, quiet and gentle, peaceful and intimate, an ode to love on his part.  The sheer blaze of colour and light of the chapel, viewing the gifts of painters and sculptors, Rodin’s The Kiss, the tapestries that were a dedication to the senses and to desire, and a chateau and grounds rebuilt on one of the greatest passions of all time – that of Napoleon and Joséphine.  Whilst he hadn’t necessarily planned it to be so, love had been the golden thread that linked their itinerary.  Perhaps he had intended it that way after all.

She sat down next to him again, with a paper bag in hand.

“Are you sure you are all right?  You would tell me wouldn’t you, if there were anything… um… wrong or … something I needed to be aware of?  I don’t want to pry but I’m not completely naïve about matters feminine.  I was married, and I grew up with a sister.”

“I wouldn’t dream of discussing ‘matters feminine’ with you.  Well, not at the moment. And anyhow, that wasn’t the purpose of my purchase.” She leaned into him and whispered, so that he could feel her breath against him, “But it was for the purposes of something… very intimate.” 

He simply raised his eyebrows , “Where would you like to have dinner?”

“Let’s have something here.  That way we can have an early night, given my train leaves at an ungodly hour in the morning… and I’m rather tired, and in need of a good rest.”

 

* * *

 

“I know you have been doing all kinds of research into every place we have visited but I’ve done some investigation of my own.  Have you heard of René Gattefosse?”  She gave him one of her looks that he knew to interpret as arch.

“No.  I don’t think he appeared in my Paris Baedeker.”

They were lying in bed, with the shutters on the windows on the northern side of their room wide open onto the evening, looking out over the rooftops of Paris, she nestled into his shoulder, he lightly stroking her arm.  She raised herself on one elbow and leaned over and took a cylindrical amber bottle out of the pharmacy bag,

“Good, so I can now provide you with some, let’s say, instruction. Gattefosse is a French chemist who creates essential oils for the perfume industry, but has found that these oils can be blended with carrier oil for the purposes of massage, a technique he calls _aromatherapie_. Even though a massage is relaxing, combining it with the sensual aromatic properties of essential oils, can also do wonders for your … shall we say, physical and emotional state.  And here we have… ,” she read from the label on the bottle, “ _huile de massage: cocktail stimulant - bergamote, mandarine, orange douce, base amande_. How does that sound?”

“Just when I was getting used to a Soixante Quinze.”

“I’ll start with your back,” she murmured into his ear.

She moved the sheet back and poured some of the liquid into the palm of her hand and ran oily hands firmly over his shoulders and up his neck.  She felt him physically ease at each repeat, as she let her fingers and nails caress his skin at the end of a gesture. The scents of citrus and almonds penetrated the room as she continued her massage, running firm thumbs down his spine then spreading her palms to rub his back and down his sides. She sensed his breathing deep and measured as she continued her journey down to his buttocks and thighs before returning to the small of his back, delighting in the indent at its base. He felt warm and relaxed to her touch.

“Do you like this?”

“Mmmm.”

“Was that mmm yes, or mmm not sure?”

“Mmm very much,” came a voice from the pillow.

Gentle evening light came through the window and faint sounds of the city.  They felt at once part of it and apart, at one with the city of light and exclusively with each other.  She lay propped up on an elbow beside him continuing to stroke his skin, to massage the muscles that lay beneath, feeling the fabric of his body, the leanness, the muscularity, getting to know every indentation and sinew.

 “Turn over…”

He rolled towards her and onto his back, and opened his eyes and raised his hand to touch her hair, to caress her cheek, to pull her face towards him and kiss her, his mouth warm and wet on hers. It tasted of his hunger, his need, the depth of his passion for her. She kneeled between his thighs as she ran her hands down his chest, circling and massaging his nipples before combing her fingers through the hairs on his chest, then slowly, slowly down his stomach. 

She sensed a shudder through his body as she replenished her supply of the liquid fragrance and watched him while she moved her hands between his legs, took him in her hands and smoothed the oil along him until he closed his eyes and groaned loudly in the quiet of the room. She straddled him, and he held her by the hips as she guided him into her. He pushed up against her as she slid down him, enveloped, buried in the citrus scents, in her gently rocking milk white skin, her body in the dim light a beautiful silhouette. They moved more quickly, she arching her back, writhing above him, and he thrusting upwards, feeling every inch inside her. Desire shook their bodies with every movement, cresting waves of pleasure swelled through them touching every nerve, the sum of their ardour ultimately uniting them.

He sank back into the pillows and pulled her to him as he always did, “Let me hold you.  I don’t want to let you go.”  He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head.  They remained like this for some time, until Phryne eventually spoke,

“What will do for your rests after tomorrow, when I’m gone?”

He held her even more tightly, and responded after a pause, “I shall lie back and think of England I imagine.”

 


	41. Chapter 41

_Abingdon Park_

_April 1930_

_Dearest Jack_

_I hope this will reach you in Constantinople before your ship leaves. I am safely arrived and all is well here, despite the many arrangements needed for the funeral and memorials afterwards._

_Naturally everyone here is shocked at the callousness of the murder and there is increased scrutiny of the law suits around the accident which may mean earlier and a more satisfactory conclusion than was previously anticipated. St John appears calmer and more accepting of all that went on in Nice with the investigation and subsequent actions, and, as the family spokesman here in England, is rising to the challenges this has presented - and he seems to enjoy it!  He has made it clear that he is anxious to move his family to the estate and this, together with his increased responsibilities, leaves me to get on with my arrangements for the trip home.  Whilst there is no necessity for me to leave with his and his family’s arrival, it would be mutually desirable for me to do so.  Hence that settles matters._

_So, before you know it we will be sharing a toast in my St Kilda parlour. You will write to me from every port won’t you?  You will have nothing else to do!_

_Harrison sends his regards and we both speak of you, warmly and often,_

_Much love_

_Phryne_

* * *

 

 

_Constantinople_

_April 1930_

_Dear Phryne_

_Thank you for your letter and I will endeavour to send you new and exciting reports from every port, despite, as you say, having little to do and consequently little to write about.  My fellow passengers, if I am to go by those at the terminus hotel, look uninteresting enough and no-one yet reports as a prospective felon, so I am envisaging a quiet voyage. But I believe the ship has an excellent library, so beware, I may bore you with a catalogue of my loan books if nothing else presents itself._

_I imagine I will spend a lot of time thinking about our stay in Paris, from that pretty breakfast room with herringbone floors on the ground floor where we started each day, to the walks, the visits and the intimate time together - la nuit, il se passe les choses que le jour ne comprend pas. (1)_

_Why is there a lingering memory of citrus?_

_Yours very affectionately,_

_Jack_

 

 

The End (for now)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) At night things happen that the daylight cannot understand.


End file.
